**THE MOMENT THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME “A LYING LITTLE MAID,” THE ENTIRE BOSTON DINING ROOM WENT QUIET—BECAUSE I HAD JUST REFUSED TO TAKE HIS NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER UPSTAIRS AND SAID, “SHE ISN’T AFRAID OF THE DARK. SHE’S AFRAID OF YOU.”** For a moment, even the string quartet in the next room seemed too loud.

The men moved with brutal efficiency, fanning out and leveling their rifles at Gabriel and Marcus.

“Drop the weapon, Marcus,” the lead gunman ordered.

Marcus glanced at Gabriel. Gabriel gave a microscopic nod. Marcus let his gun hit the floor.

From the darkness of the hallway, Vincenzo stepped into the light.

He was seventy years old, dressed in a sharp, tailored tuxedo. His silver hair was perfectly combed. He looked like a kind grandfather.

Until you looked at his eyes. They were completely dead.

And on his left wrist, catching the dim lamplight, was a bulky, silver watch.

Sofia let out a tiny gasp and buried her face in my apron.

“Uncle,” Gabriel said. His voice was remarkably steady, though I could see the veins standing out on his neck.

“Gabriel,” Vincenzo replied, sighing heavily. “I really hoped it wouldn’t end this way. I built this empire. Your father was weak. You were getting weak. I couldn’t let you ruin what I created.”

“By killing my wife?”

“She was a nuisance,” Vincenzo said dismissively. “She snooped where she didn’t belong. She found the rosary in my old safe. She thought she could use it to force me out.”

He turned his cold eyes to Celeste.

“And you. You greedy, stupid girl. You were supposed to marry him, keep him distracted, and find the financial ledgers Elena hid. Instead, you get caught by a maid.”

Vincenzo sneered at me.

“Speaking of which. Kill the maid and the kid first.”

My heart stopped.

Gabriel lunged forward, but two gunmen immediately slammed the butts of their rifles into his stomach and shoulders, dropping him to his knees.

“No!” Gabriel roared, struggling against them.

One of the gunmen racked his rifle, pointing it directly at my chest. I wrapped my arms around Sofia, turning my back to the barrel, closing my eyes.

“Wait!” Sofia screamed.

The room froze.

I opened my eyes. Sofia had wriggled out of my grasp and was standing in front of me, facing Vincenzo.

“I know where the book is,” she said, her voice shaking but loud.

Vincenzo raised an eyebrow, signaling the gunman to hold.

“What book, little bird?”

“The book with the numbers,” Sofia said. “Mommy’s diary. The one she hid.”

Vincenzo smiled, a chilling, serpentine grin. “Is that so? Where is it?”

“I’ll only show you if you let Rachel and my Daddy go.”

“Sofia, no,” Gabriel choked out from the floor, blood pooling in his mouth.

Vincenzo chuckled. “You’re negotiating? Just like your father. Fine. Show me the book, and I’ll let the maid go.”

He was lying. I knew it. Gabriel knew it.

But Sofia turned and walked toward the grand, built-in bookshelves lining the far wall of the library.

I watched her, terrified.

She reached behind a heavy encyclopedia volume and pulled out a bundle wrapped in an old, pink cashmere sweater. Elena’s sweater.

Sofia carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a leather-bound diary.

But as she unwrapped it, a small piece of thick paper fluttered to the floor.

I was closest. I quickly snatched it up before Vincenzo’s men could see it.

I palmed it, glancing down quickly.

It was an Amtrak train ticket.

Two passengers. Elena Romano and Sofia Romano.

Destination: Montreal, Canada.

Date: The exact night Elena was murdered.

My breath caught.

Elena wasn't blackmailing Vincenzo to take over the family. She wasn’t trying to stay in this life.

She was trying to buy her way out.

She was using the rosary and the ledgers to force Vincenzo to let her and Sofia walk away forever.

She was running to save her daughter.

“Bring it here,” Vincenzo commanded, holding out his hand.

Sofia walked slowly toward him, clutching the leather diary.

Vincenzo snatched it from her hands, greedily flipping through the pages. His eyes scanned the messy handwriting, the rows of bank account numbers, the offshore routing codes.

“Yes,” Vincenzo hissed, victorious. “This is it. Every stolen dime. Every shell company.”

He looked down at Sofia.

“Thank you, my dear.”

He looked up at his men.

“Kill them all. Make it look like a rival family hit.”

He turned his back and began to walk out the door.

But as he turned, I saw something that made my blood run cold.

Tucked into the back of Vincenzo’s waistband, barely hidden by his tuxedo jacket, was a heavy, silver revolver.

And Marcus had seen it too.