THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME STRUGGLE TO CARRY A HEAVY SILVER CENTERPIECE WITHOUT STRAIGHTENING MY BACK—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE FELL IN THE UPSTAIRS GUEST ROOM,” BEFORE HE HAD ASKED WHY I WAS HURT. I almost made it to the table.

Luca didn't wait for Daniel.

He walked straight toward the main staircase.

I stood frozen in the doorway of his study, my right arm throbbing inside the sling.

My breathing felt shallow.

"Sophie."

Daniel's voice was sharp.

He was already moving, his hand resting on the earpiece tucked into his collar.

"Stay here. Lock the door behind me."

I didn't argue.

I stepped fully into the study and listened to the heavy oak door click shut.

Alone.

The security monitors glowed in the dim room, casting a pale blue light across the mahogany desk.

On the screen, the frozen image of Andrew Keller leaving the guest room stared back at me.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I had exactly sixty-eight dollars to my name.

I had a six-year-old son, Leo, sleeping at my neighbor’s apartment, waiting for me to come home.

I couldn't afford to be in the middle of a mafia boss’s family war.

But I was already in it.

I walked closer to the monitors.

Daniel had left the playback running on a secondary screen.

It showed the live feed of the grand foyer.

Vanessa was standing near the bottom of the staircase, laughing softly with the mayor's wife.

She looked radiant. Untouchable.

Then, the camera caught something else.

Andrew Keller.

He was standing near the front door, his larger camera bag slung over his shoulder.

He was trying to leave.

Two of Luca's men in dark suits stepped in front of the exit.

Keller smiled, gesturing to his watch.

The men didn't move.

Keller's smile vanished.

Suddenly, my eyes darted to the top left monitor.

The master bedroom.

Luca had just walked in.

He didn't turn on the main lights.

He went straight to the massive king-sized bed.

He knelt.

He reached underneath the heavy silk dust ruffle.

And pulled out the smaller black leather bag.

I held my breath.

Luca unzipped it.

He didn't pull out a camera lens.

He didn't pull out a hard drive or a recording device.

He pulled out a child's drawing.

Even through the grainy security footage, I recognized the bright yellow crayon. The crooked sun. The red stick figure standing next to a blue stick figure.

My legs gave out.

I grabbed the edge of the desk to keep from falling.

That was Leo's drawing.

He had drawn it for me yesterday morning.

I had folded it and tucked it inside my coat pocket before coming to work.

Why was it in a bag hidden under Luca Moretti's bed?

I watched Luca turn the paper over.

There was writing on the back.

He read it.

His entire posture changed.

The cold, calculating mafia boss vanished, replaced by something much more dangerous.

Absolute stillness.

He reached into the bag again.

This time, he pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver rosary.

It wasn't just any rosary.

The crucifix was missing its left arm.

I gasped aloud, covering my mouth with my good hand.

I knew that rosary.

It belonged to my late husband, David.

He had worn it every day until he died in a hit-and-run four years ago.

I kept it locked in a small cedar box in my bedroom closet.

Nobody knew about it.

Nobody.

How did Vanessa get it?

Suddenly, the handle of the study door rattled.

I jumped backward.

"Sophie."

It was Luca's voice.

I scrambled to unlock it.

He walked in.

He didn't look angry. He looked entirely hollowed out.

He set the drawing and the rosary on the desk.

"Do you know what these are?" he asked.

His voice was terrifyingly calm.

I swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Tell me."

"The drawing belongs to my son, Leo. The rosary belonged to my husband."

Luca looked at the broken crucifix.

"Your husband was David Bennett?"

"Yes."

Luca closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.

When he opened them, the darkness in his gaze made me take a step back.

"David Bennett wasn't just a hit-and-run victim, Sophie."

My chest tightened. "What?"

Luca picked up the child's drawing and flipped it over.

He slid it across the desk toward me.

Written in Vanessa's elegant, sloping handwriting was a single sentence:

Cancel the wedding, and the boy pays for what his father stole.

I stared at the words.

My vision blurred.

"My husband was an accountant," I whispered. "He didn't steal anything."

Luca looked at the rosary.

"He was my accountant, Sophie."

I stopped breathing.

"And four years ago," Luca continued softly, "he didn't die in an accident. He died because he found out my fiancée was stealing from my family. And now, she's trying to frame you for it."

He reached into his pocket.