THE MOMENT THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME “A GREEDY LITTLE MAID,” I SLAMMED HIS MOTHER’S JEWELRY BOX SHUT BEFORE HE COULD GIVE HER THE NECKLACE—AND THIRTY GUESTS WATCHED HIM TURN TOWARD ME. I had never seen Dominic DeLuca look at anyone the way he looked at me that night. His hand was still resting on the little velvet box.

The photograph trembled in my hand.

I stared at the face of the man I had known as Michael. The man who used to fix my sink and bring me cheap sunflowers. The man who held my baby and then vanished into thin air.

“You're lying,” I choked out.

“Am I?” Victoria smoothed the front of her trench coat. “Did he ever introduce you to his family, Hannah? Did he ever show you a driver's license? Or did he just disappear the moment he realized the DeLuca family was hunting him?”

My chest tightened so painfully I could barely breathe.

Michael had never talked about his past. He paid for everything in cash. And he had left in the middle of the night, leaving only a note that said: I have to keep you safe.

“If he killed Dominic's father,” I said, forcing my voice to steady, “then why are you giving him the DeLuca jewelry?”

Victoria’s cruel smile faltered.

Before she could answer, the heavy brass doorknob turned. When it didn't open, someone pounded on the wood.

“Hannah. Open the door.”

It was Dominic.

Victoria panicked. She lunged for the window, looking down at the dark, rain-slicked gardens three stories below. There was no fire escape. No way out.

I walked past her, slipped the photograph into my apron pocket, and unlocked the door.

Dominic stepped inside. Marco was right behind him.

Dominic looked at Victoria, then at the envelope of cash on the table, and finally at me.

“Did she hurt you?” Dominic asked. His voice was frighteningly calm.

“No, sir.”

Dominic turned to his head of security. “Marco. Take Victoria to the wine cellar. Lock the door. If she speaks, gag her.”

Victoria screamed. “Dominic, you can't do this! I am your fiancée!”

Marco clamped a massive hand over her arm, dragging her out of the room as easily as if she were a child. Her screams echoed down the hallway until they were abruptly cut off by a closing door.

Dominic didn't watch her go. He walked over to his mother.

Rosa was trembling in her chair, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. Dominic knelt beside her, his imposing frame suddenly gentle. He took her frail hands in his.

“It's okay, Ma,” he whispered in Italian. “She's gone. She won't ever touch you again.”

Rosa looked at him, her eyes searching his face. But the lucidity from ten minutes ago was fading. The fog was rolling back in.

“Vincenzo?” she murmured, calling Dominic by his father’s name. “Vincenzo, the brakes. The brakes are bleeding.”

Dominic closed his eyes. The pain on his face was so raw I had to look away.

He stood up and turned to me.

“Thank you, Hannah. For what you did downstairs.”

“You don't need to thank me, sir. I was just doing my job.”

“You did more than your job.” Dominic reached into his jacket pocket. “When I went to check on your son in the staff quarters, I found this taped to his door.”

He handed me a piece of paper.

It was a child's drawing. Crayon on construction paper. Leo drew them all the time.

But this wasn't one of Leo's innocent drawings of dogs or trucks.

It was a drawing of a tall man in a black coat holding a little boy's hand. The little boy had a red baseball cap—Leo’s favorite cap. And at the bottom, written in neat, adult handwriting, were three words.

See you soon.

My blood ran cold.

“Who put this there?” I demanded, panic rising in my throat. “Where is Leo?!”

“He’s safe,” Dominic said quickly. “I have two men stationed outside his room. No one gets in or out.”

I clutched the drawing to my chest, my mind racing. Michael was here. He had been on the estate. He had been close enough to my son’s room to leave a drawing on the door.

“Mr. DeLuca,” I said, my voice shaking. “The man Victoria is working with. The one she was paying off. It's him. The man who killed your father.”

Dominic stared at me, his eyes narrowing. “My father’s killer is dead, Hannah. I killed him myself twelve years ago.”

I stopped.

I looked at the drawing. I felt the photograph in my pocket.

“If he's dead,” I whispered, pulling the Polaroid from my apron and handing it to Dominic, “then who is the man in this picture? Because Victoria just told me he's your father's killer. And he's also my son's father.”

Dominic looked at the photograph.

All the color drained from his face.

The heavy, imposing mafia boss suddenly looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Hannah,” Dominic breathed, staring at the photo. “That isn't my father's killer.”

“Then who is it?”