THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME STRUGGLE TO WHEEL HIS FIANCÉE’S $40,000 WEDDING GOWN INTO THE DINING ROOM—THEN SHE SAID, “SHE FELL AT THE FRONT GATE,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY MY STOCKING WAS COVERED IN BLOOD. Four more steps.

The grand foyer of the Moretti estate smelled of expensive lilies and spilled champagne.

Luca burst through the front doors, the heavy oak slamming shut behind him with a thunderous echo. The string quartet playing in the ballroom abruptly stopped. Twenty-eight wealthy guests turned to look at the groom, who stood in the entryway, radiating pure, unadulterated violence.

"Where is she?" Luca demanded. His voice wasn't a shout. It was a low, lethal rumble that instantly froze the room.

The guests parted nervously.

Clara—still wearing the stunning red silk gown, still playing the role of Vanessa Bellini—stepped out from the dining room. She was holding a crystal champagne flute, her smile perfectly intact, though a fraction too tight.

"Darling," she said smoothly, walking toward him. "You disappeared. We were about to cut the cake."

Luca didn't move. He let her approach, his dark eyes analyzing every micro-expression on her beautiful, lying face.

When she was close enough to touch him, he didn't reach for her waist. He reached out and wrapped his large hand firmly around her wrist, right over her diamond bracelet.

"Where is Lucy?" he asked quietly.

Clara’s smile didn't falter, but her pulse hammered wildly beneath his grip. "Lucy? The clumsy maid? I imagine she went home after causing such a scene."

"No," Luca said, stepping closer, crowding her space until she was forced to look up at him. "She didn't go home. She was taken from the medical wing. Her doctor is unconscious."

Murmurs erupted among the guests.

Clara laughed, a light, dismissive sound. "Well, perhaps she stole something and tried to run. You know how these girls are, Luca."

"I know exactly how you are, Clara," Luca said softly.

The name dropped like a bomb.

Clara’s flawless mask shattered. Her eyes widened, the champagne glass slipping from her fingers and shattering on the marble floor.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered, trying to pull her wrist away.

"Margaret is in a safe house," Luca informed her, his grip tightening. "She gave me the funeral program. The real Vanessa is dead. You’ve been wearing her name for eight years."

Panic finally, completely consumed her. The elegant fiancée vanished, replaced by a desperate, cornered animal.

"She’s lying!" Clara shrieked, turning to the shocked guests. "That old woman is crazy! Luca, you can't believe her over me!"

"I believe the text message you sent me," Luca replied, pulling his phone from his pocket. He held the screen up, showing the photo of Lucy. "You threatened her life if Margaret spoke."

"I didn't send that!" Clara cried, tears spilling over her mascara.

Reversal.

Clara wasn't lying. The sheer terror in her eyes was genuine. She looked at the photo on Luca’s phone with absolute, unfeigned confusion.

"Luca," Clara whispered, her voice trembling violently. "I swear to God, I didn't send that message. I haven't left this room since you walked out."

Luca frowned, reading the lie in her face. There wasn't one.

"Then who took Lucy?" he demanded.

Before Clara could answer, a loud, heavy thud echoed from the floor directly above them.

The master suite.

Luca released Clara’s wrist, drawing his weapon from his shoulder holster. The guests screamed, scrambling toward the exit.

"Daniel! Lock down the perimeter!" Luca roared into his earpiece as he sprinted up the grand staircase.

He took the stairs three at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He didn't care about Clara’s lies right now. He didn't care about the fake engagement.

He only cared about the terrified twenty-seven-year-old girl with a bleeding leg who was currently trapped in his house.

He reached the second-floor landing and kicked open the heavy double doors of the master suite.

The room was dark. The balcony doors were wide open, the cold night wind billowing the sheer curtains into the room like ghosts.

"Lucy!" Luca called out, his gun raised, sweeping the room.

Nothing.

He moved toward the balcony, boots crunching on something hard. He looked down.

Scattered across the expensive Persian rug were hundreds of torn pieces of white fabric.

It was the $40,000 wedding gown. It had been shredded to pieces.

And lying in the center of the destroyed dress was the silver locket Daniel had found earlier.

Luca picked it up. The clasp was broken.

But as he turned it over, his blood ran completely cold.

Engraved on the back of the locket was a small crest.

A coiled snake gripping a dagger.

The Morano family. The most ruthless rival syndicate in Chicago.

"Boss," Daniel’s voice crackled frantically over the earpiece. "We have a breach at the south wall. Two vehicles just broke through the service gates."

"Are they Morano’s men?" Luca asked, his voice deadly calm.

"No, sir." Daniel hesitated. "The vehicles belong to Clara’s father. The man who proposed the toast downstairs."

Luca spun around, sprinting back toward the staircase.

Clara’s 'father' wasn't her father. He was an actor she had hired. Or so Luca had thought.

But when Luca reached the foyer, Clara was gone.

The guests were gone.

The only thing left was a single red high heel sitting perfectly upright in the center of the marble floor.