THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME KNEEL TO FIX A 64-YEAR-OLD WOMAN'S BROKEN SHOE AT HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE WAS FIRED FOR STEALING,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY THE WOMAN WHO HAD RAISED HIM WAS CRYING OUTSIDE THE DINING ROOM.*

I stopped in the doorway.

The purple ink on the envelope was unmistakable. It was the exact same ink used on the forged eviction notices.

But Vanessa was in custody. Marco was in jail. The threat was neutralized.

Why did Thomas have a letter written in that ink inside his burned coat?

I looked back into the room. Matteo was speaking quietly with Eleanor, holding her hands.

I carefully reached into the pocket of the charred jacket and pulled the envelope out.

It was sealed with red wax. The front simply read: For Matteo. When it is over.

My heart hammered in my chest.

“Mr. DeLuca,” I said softly.

Matteo turned around.

I held up the envelope. “I found this in Thomas’s coat.”

Matteo’s brow furrowed. He walked over and took it from my hand.

He stared at the purple ink.

“Thomas,” Matteo said, his voice tightening. “Where did you get this?”

The old man looked at the envelope. His exhausted face paled.

“I… I found it on the porch of the cottage, sir. Right before the fire started. I shoved it in my pocket, but I forgot about it in the chaos.”

Matteo broke the wax seal.

He unfolded the thick parchment.

As he read the words, his face drained of color. He didn't say a word. He just stared at the paper as if it were a ghost.

“Matteo?” Eleanor asked nervously. “What is it?”

Matteo slowly handed the letter to me.

My hands shook as I read the elegant handwriting.

My dearest Matteo,

If you are reading this, it means Vanessa has finally been removed, and the estate is safe.

I knew I would not live long enough to protect you from the Bellini family myself. But I also knew Vanessa’s greed would eventually be her undoing.

I engineered this night, Matteo. The emergency transfer, the loophole in the trust, the forged documents... I arranged for all of it to fall into Vanessa’s lap so she would commit a crime so severe she could never escape it.

But there is one thing I could not secure from the grave.

The original Ledger you found in the coat is not the only copy.

Marco kept a digital backup. And if he goes to prison, his contingency plan will trigger. The digital ledger will be sent to the Commission.

When they see it, they will kill every single person associated with our family. Including Eleanor, Thomas, and little Leo.

You must find the backup, Matteo. You have exactly 48 hours before the automated server sends the files.

I am sorry to leave you with this burden.

With all my love, Mom.

I dropped the letter.

“She planned this,” I whispered. “Your mother orchestrated Vanessa’s downfall from beyond the grave.”

Matteo ran a hand through his hair, pacing the small hospital room.

“She forced Vanessa into a corner, knowing she would snap. But my mother didn't know about Marco’s digital backup.”

Eleanor stood up, terrified. “Matteo, if the Commission gets that ledger... they’ll come for us. All of us.”

“They won't,” Matteo said firmly.

He grabbed his coat.

“Claire, stay here with them. Do not let anyone in this room except the nurses.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

Matteo looked at his father’s pocket watch.

“Marco is sitting in a federal holding cell. I’m going to pay him a visit.”

Before I could say another word, Matteo was out the door.

I sat down next to Leo’s bed, my mind racing.

Forty-eight hours.

If Marco’s automated system sent the files, the entire Chicago syndicate would declare war on the DeLuca family and anyone tied to them.

I looked at Thomas.

“Did you see anything else on the porch when you found the letter?” I asked him.

Thomas coughed, shaking his head.

“Just the letter. But...” He hesitated. “There was a car parked down the lane. Black SUV. When the fire started, they didn't come to help. They just watched.”

My blood ran cold.

Vanessa and Marco were both in custody when the fire started.

If they didn't set the fire… who did?

Suddenly, the hospital room door swung open.

A doctor walked in, carrying a clipboard. He had a surgical mask covering half his face.

“Time for Thomas’s medication,” the doctor said, his voice muffled.

He walked toward the IV bag.

But as he reached up, his white sleeve pulled back.

On his wrist, heavily scarred by old burn marks, was a tattoo of a black snake.

The crest of the Bellini syndicate’s enforcers.

I stood up instantly.

“He doesn't need medication,” I said loudly, backing toward the emergency call button on the wall.