THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME STRUGGLE TO REMOVE HIS DAUGHTER’S PLACE SETTING WITH ONE BANDAGED HAND—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE HURT IT IN THE GUEST ROOM,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHAT HAPPENED. I had almost reached the kitchen when the little porcelain plate slipped from my injured hand.

The darkness was absolute.

No moonlight pierced the heavy velvet curtains of the hallway. The sudden blackout was accompanied by the terrifying sound of shattering glass and screaming men from the floor below.

Someone had cut the main power line.

“Marco!” Vanessa shrieked in the dark, a gunshot tearing through the air.

The muzzle flash briefly illuminated the hallway like a strobe light. The bullet slammed into the wall inches from my head.

“Grace!”

It was Marco’s voice, rough and urgent.

A heavy hand grabbed my arm, yanking me backward into the bedroom. He pulled Ella in with his other hand and kicked the splintered door shut.

“They’re storming the house,” Marco breathed, pressing his back against the wall. “Luca’s loyalists must have breached the perimeter.”

“We have to get out of here,” I panicked, clutching Ella to my side. The little girl was trembling violently, burying her face against my apron.

“We can't go down the stairs,” Marco said, checking the magazine of his own weapon by touch. “Vanessa and Carlo’s men are holding the foyer. We need another way down.”

I thought frantically.

Ten months of cleaning this massive, archaic mansion flashed through my mind.

“The servant passages,” I whispered.

“What?”

“This house was built in the 1920s,” I said, my words rushing out. “There’s an old servant staircase behind the linen closet at the end of the hall. It leads straight down to the basement boiler room. We can get out through the coal chute.”

“Is it open?”

“No. It’s locked with an old skeleton key.”

“Do you have it?” Marco demanded.

I reached up to my neck.

Beneath the collar of my uniform, resting against my collarbone, was a heavy silver key on a cheap chain. It had belonged to my father, who used to work as a groundskeeper on this very estate thirty years ago. He had given it to me before he died, calling it a "magic key" to the castle.

“Yes,” I breathed, pulling it over my head.

“Lead the way,” Marco ordered.

We slipped out of the bedroom. The hallway was still pitch black. The gunfire downstairs had evolved into a brutal, close-quarters firefight. The smell of copper and gunpowder drifted up the grand staircase.

I kept my left hand on the wall, feeling my way toward the linen closet. Ella held onto the back of my apron, her small hands gripping the fabric like a lifeline. Marco covered our rear.

We reached the end of the hall.

I fumbled with the wooden paneling, finding the hidden keyhole hidden beneath a decorative molding.

My injured right hand throbbed in agony as I forced the heavy key to turn.

With a stiff click, the hidden door swung inward, revealing a narrow, pitch-black staircase smelling of dust and old wood.

“Go,” Marco hissed.

I pushed Ella inside and stepped in after her. Marco squeezed through the narrow opening, pulling the panel shut behind him.

The silence inside the hidden passage was instant and heavy. The thick walls muffled the chaos outside.

I turned on my small keychain flashlight, casting a weak, yellow beam down the steep wooden steps.

“Hold my hand, Ella,” I whispered.

We descended slowly. The stairs creaked under our weight. Dust danced in the weak beam of light.

We reached the bottom landing, standing in front of a heavy iron door that led to the boiler room.

I reached for the handle.

“Wait,” Marco whispered sharply, grabbing my shoulder.

He stepped in front of me, pressing his ear to the iron door.

I held my breath.

Through the thick metal, I could hear it.

Footsteps. Pacing back and forth in the boiler room on the other side.

Someone was waiting for us.

Marco slowly raised his gun. He looked back at me and mouthed, “When I open it, run for the chute.”

I nodded, wrapping my arms around Ella.

Marco gripped the iron handle. He took a deep breath.

And yanked the door open.

The weak emergency lights of the basement illuminated the room.

Standing in the center of the concrete floor, holding a shotgun leveled directly at the doorway, was Carlo.

“I knew about the servant stairs, Marco,” Carlo sneered, his face bruised and bleeding. “You think Luca never told me the secrets of his own house?”

Marco didn't hesitate. He raised his gun.

But Carlo was faster.

He racked the shotgun.

“Drop it, or I cut the girl in half,” Carlo barked.

Marco froze. Slowly, he lowered his weapon and let it clatter onto the concrete floor.

“Smart boy,” Carlo smiled. “Now, step aside.”

He pointed the shotgun directly at Ella.

Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the dark corner of the boiler room behind Carlo.

A figure stepped into the dim light.

It was Luca.

His tuxedo shirt was torn, soaked in blood that wasn't his. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated wrath.

He didn't say a word.

He just raised a massive iron wrench he had pulled from the boiler toolkit.

And brought it down on the back of Carlo’s head with sickening force.

Carlo collapsed instantly, the shotgun firing harmlessly into the ceiling as he fell.

Luca stood over the unconscious body of his former best friend, chest heaving, his dark eyes wide and wild.

He dropped the wrench.

He looked across the room.

He saw Ella.

“Daddy!”

Ella broke away from me and sprinted across the concrete floor.

Luca dropped to his knees, catching his daughter as she crashed into his chest. He buried his face in her dark hair, wrapping his massive arms around her, shaking with violent, silent sobs.

“I’ve got you,” Luca choked out, kissing the top of her head. “Daddy’s got you. I will never let you go.”

I stood by the doorway, tears streaming down my face.

The nightmare was finally breaking.

But then, the distinct click of a revolver hammer cocking echoed through the basement.

I spun around.

Standing at the bottom of the servant stairs, her white Chanel suit covered in soot and dust, was Maria Moretti.