THE NIGHT CHICAGO’S MOST FEARED MAFIA BOSS WALKED INTO MY RESTAURANT, I WAS KNEELING BESIDE HIS MOTHER WITH HER EXPENSIVE COAT WRAPPED AROUND MY SHOULDERS—AND I HAD NO IDEA WHO SHE WAS. I knew I was in trouble the moment the front doors opened. Not because anyone said his name.

Dennis scrambled backward like a crab, clutching his broken wrist, before finally finding his footing and running blindly into the night.

Lorenzo didn’t bother sending his men after him. A broken manager with no backer was a ghost, not a threat.

My attention immediately turned to David.

He was pinned against the brick wall by one of Lorenzo’s men, trembling uncontrollably. He looked pathetic.

I walked slowly toward him. The anger that had been simmering inside me for three years—the late nights, the past-due bills, the times I had held Lily while she cried for a father who never called—suddenly boiled over.

“Grace,” David stammered, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry. I swear, I didn’t know Victor was going to—”

Smack.

My palm connected with his cheek with a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the narrow alley.

My hand stung, but the absolute shock on David’s face was worth it.

Even Lorenzo’s men raised an eyebrow, exchanging a brief, impressed look.

“You abandoned your daughter,” I said, my voice low and shaking with pure fury. “You left us to drown. And when you finally needed a lifeline, you tried to drag us down with you.”

“I was desperate, Gracie.”

“Don’t you ever call me that again,” I snapped. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my cell phone. “You have thirty seconds to walk out of this alley before I call the police and tell them exactly who broke into my apartment tonight.”

David looked at me, then at Lorenzo, who was watching the scene with silent, lethal approval.

David didn’t argue. He slid along the wall and sprinted out of the alley, disappearing into the Chicago night.

I stood there for a moment, my chest heaving, the adrenaline slowly crashing.

Suddenly, I felt a heavy, warm weight settle over my shoulders.

Lorenzo stepped behind me, adjusting Evelyn’s wool coat around me. His hands lingered on my shoulders, grounding me.

“Mrs. Higgins is safe,” Lorenzo murmured near my ear. “My men texted. She slept through the entire thing. The apartment is secure.”

I let out a jagged breath, leaning back slightly against his solid chest. “It’s over.”

“No,” Lorenzo said softly, stepping around to face me. “It isn’t.”

I looked up at him, confused.

Lorenzo reached out and gently touched the silver sparrow locket resting against my chest. His fingers brushed against my skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my heart.

“Victor is gone,” Lorenzo said. “But the bank is still open. And your father’s safety deposit box is still waiting.”

The next morning, the sun was shining brightly over downtown Chicago.

I stood in the marble lobby of the First National Bank, holding Lily’s hand tightly. She was wearing her favorite yellow dress, entirely oblivious to the chaos of the night before. To her, this was just a field trip with Aunt Grace and the "tall, quiet man in the nice suit."

Lorenzo stood beside me, projecting an aura of such absolute authority that the bank manager had practically tripped over himself to escort us to the private vaults.

“Box 402, Mr. Moretti,” the manager said nervously, pointing to a brass door in the wall. “We’ll, uh, give you privacy.”

The manager scurried out, closing the heavy steel gate behind him.

Lorenzo looked at me.

I took a deep breath. I reached behind my neck, unclasped the silver sparrow, and popped the locket open. I slid the tiny brass key into the lock on the wall.

It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.

Lorenzo reached past me and pulled the long metal drawer out, carrying it to a private viewing table.

I squeezed Lily’s hand, walked over, and looked inside.

There were no stacks of cash.

There were three things in the box.

A thick manila envelope sealed with wax.

A stack of yellowed, handwritten letters bound by a rubber band.

And a small, faded photograph.

I reached for the photograph first. My hands trembled as I held it up to the light.

It was a picture of my father, wearing his flour-dusted apron, standing outside his bakery in the West Loop. But he wasn’t alone. Standing next to him, laughing with a cigar in his hand, was a much younger, ruggedly handsome man who bore a striking resemblance to the man standing next to me.

“My father,” Lorenzo said quietly, looking at the photo. “They were closer than brothers.”

I set the photo down and picked up the handwritten letters.

The top letter was addressed to me and my sister.

My dearest Grace and Sarah,

If you are reading this, it means I am gone. It also means you have found the Moretti family, or they have found you. I baked bread for thirty years, but my real life’s work was protecting this neighborhood. Lorenzo’s father and I made a promise to keep the West Loop out of the hands of the developers and the loan sharks.

The envelope in this box contains the deed to the bakery, free and clear. It also contains the deeds to the six properties surrounding it. The trust fund was never mine. It was a smokescreen to hide the real estate.

Grace, my brave girl. The bakery is yours. Build something beautiful. And if Lorenzo is standing with you, tell him his father would be proud of the man he became.

A tear slipped down my cheek and splashed onto the faded ink.

“He left me the bakery,” I whispered.

Lorenzo reached out and opened the manila envelope. He pulled out a stack of thick, legal documents. He scanned the top page, his eyes widening slightly.

“He didn’t just leave you the bakery, Grace,” Lorenzo said, his voice laced with awe.

He turned the document toward me.

“Your father owned the entire block.”

I stared at the paperwork. Millions of dollars in real estate, hidden in a bank vault for twenty years, guarded by a silver sparrow.

Before I could process the magnitude of it, the heavy steel door to the vault room violently clanged open.

I jumped, pulling Lily behind me.

A man stood in the doorway.

He was older, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. He wore a sharp, gray suit, and his eyes were identical to Lorenzo’s. Cold. Dark. Lethal.

“Well, well,” the man rasped, tapping his cane on the marble floor. “My brother’s lost deeds. Finally found by a waitress.”

Lorenzo immediately stepped in front of me, shielding me and Lily completely.

“Uncle Silvio,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register.

“You didn’t think Victor Vance was operating without my permission, did you, Lorenzo?” Silvio sneered. “Victor was an idiot. But he was my idiot. And those deeds belong to the Moretti family. Hand them over, or neither you nor the baker’s daughter leaves this vault.”