THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME PICK UP A CRUMPLED BLUE ENVELOPE FROM BESIDE HIS EIGHT-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER AT HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “IT'S JUST AN OLD LETTER FROM HER DEAD MOTHER,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY THE LITTLE GIRL WAS CRYING.

The flour on the kitchen counter suddenly looked like ash.

"Escaped?" I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "How is that possible? She was in a federal holding facility."

Luca walked over to the kitchen island, leaning his hands heavily on the granite counter. "Her father, Anthony, suffered a massive heart attack in his cell last night. He died before the paramedics arrived."

I gasped.

"While the guards were distracted with the medical emergency," Luca continued, his voice grim, "Vanessa managed to slip away during a transport transfer. The FBI believes she had outside help. Remaining loyalists from her father's crew."

"Is she coming here?" I panicked, looking toward the open windows, suddenly feeling exposed to the entire world.

"The FBI doesn't think so," Luca said, though he didn't look convinced. "They wiped our files. Only the Director knows where we are. But Vanessa is desperate, and she blames me for her father's death. I need to tighten security."

For the next three days, the idyllic Maine farmhouse turned back into a fortress.

Luca didn't put on a suit, but he strapped his ankle holster back on. He installed heavy deadbolts on all the doors and motion-sensor lights around the perimeter of the property. I kept Arthur at our cottage, refusing to let him sit on the porch.

Emily noticed the change. She didn't ask questions, but the anxious look returned to her eyes. She started carrying the wooden box of her mother's letters around the house with her, as if she feared they would be stolen again.

On the fourth morning, I walked up to the farmhouse to make breakfast.

I found Luca sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a newspaper he had picked up in town.

It was the Chicago Tribune.

"Look at this," Luca said, sliding the paper toward me.

On the front page was a small, seemingly insignificant article about a fire at a downtown Chicago jewelry store.

LOCAL JEWELER DESTROYED IN ARSON FIRE. NO CASUALTIES.

I frowned. "I don't understand."

"That jeweler," Luca pointed to the name in the article, "was the man who appraised Katherine's pearl necklace before we got married. The one Vanessa stole."

My breath caught. "Why would she burn down his store?"

"She's tying up loose ends," Luca said, his eyes narrowing. "She knows the FBI is hunting her. She's destroying anything that ties her to her past crimes so she can flee the country. But she's arrogant. She wants me to know she's still out there."

He stood up, pacing the kitchen. "She's not coming here, Helen. She doesn't know where we are. She's just trying to make me look over my shoulder for the rest of my life."

"Then what do we do?" I asked, trembling.

"We don't play her game," Luca said fiercely. "I am not going to let that woman steal my peace. I won't let her put fear back into my daughter's eyes."

He walked over to the wall phone, ripped the cord out of the jack, and threw the receiver in the trash.

"The past is dead," Luca said. "We are moving forward."

And just like that, the mafia boss truly died. Luca made a conscious, active choice to surrender his paranoia. He took off his ankle holster and locked the gun in a heavy safe in the basement. He opened the windows back up to let the ocean breeze in.

When Emily came downstairs, clutching her wooden box, Luca knelt down and hugged her tightly.

"You don't need to carry that everywhere, baby," he smiled gently. "You're safe here. I promise you."