THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE PINK COAT

The melody of the music box abruptly stopped, winding down to a chilling silence.

I stared at the black envelope in Marco’s trembling hand.

Don Salvatore, the untouchable Godfather of the East Coast, the man who had protected us just three months ago, was dead.

Assassinated.

“Who sent it?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I instinctively stepped in front of Lily, shielding her.

Marco slowly cracked the black wax seal. His dark eyes scanned the heavy parchment inside. As he read, the color returned to his face, but it wasn't the flush of relief. It was the boiling, crimson heat of pure rage.

“It’s from New York,” Marco said, his jaw locked so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. “The remaining Rossi capos. They staged a coup. They killed Salvatore for siding with us. They’ve taken control of the Commission.”

My stomach plummeted. “And the letter?”

Marco looked at me. The vulnerability of the recovering father was gone. The apex predator of the Chicago syndicate had returned.

“They are demanding I surrender the Chicago ports immediately,” Marco said coldly. “Or they will finish what Olivia started. They declared open war on our family.”

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

We had thought it was over. We had thought we could finally heal.

But the mafia is a hungry beast. It doesn't let you walk away.

“Daddy?” Lily tugged on my skirt, looking frightened by Marco’s terrifying expression. “Are the bad men coming back?”

Marco’s face softened instantly. He dropped to one knee, ignoring the lingering pain in his side, and pulled Lily into a fierce hug.

“No, Principessa,” Marco whispered into her hair. “The bad men are never coming near this house again. Daddy promises.”

He stood up, kissing my forehead, his eyes blazing with a dark, lethal resolve.

“Pack a bag for Lily,” Marco ordered quietly. “Maria is taking her to the safehouse in Wisconsin. With ten of my best men.”

“What about us?” I asked, my heart pounding.

“We are staying here,” Marco said. “I am calling the families. The Irish, the Russians, everyone. If New York wants a war in Chicago, I will burn them to the ground.”

He turned and strode out of the room, yelling for his security chief.

I stood in the yellow room, my mind racing.

A war meant blood. It meant Marco constantly in the crosshairs. It meant Lily growing up in the shadow of violence, just like Marco had. Just like my father had.

I looked down at the letter from Elena resting on the floor.

He spoke of his wife, Catherine, with a love so profound...

I couldn't let Marco die in a turf war. I couldn't let my daughter lose her father.

I knelt down, kissed Lily on the forehead, and told her to pack her favorite toys.

Then, I walked to my bedroom.

I didn't pack a bag.

I went to my jewelry box. I opened the secret compartment at the bottom and pulled out the silver pocket watch Don Salvatore had left me.

My father’s watch.

Salvatore was dead, but the watch wasn't just a trinket. My father had told me once, long ago, that the watch held a secret. A failsafe, if the syndicate ever turned on our bloodline.

I sat on the edge of the bed, turning the heavy silver watch over in my hands.

I pressed the small button on the top, popping the lid open. The clock face ticked steadily.

I took my bobby pin, the same one I used to open the music box, and wedged it beneath the glass face of the watch. I pried it upward.

The face popped off.

Underneath the gears, folded impossibly small, was a tiny piece of microfilm.

I held it up to the light of the bedside lamp.

I couldn't read the microscopic text, but I knew exactly what it was.

My father hadn't just been a baker. He had been the syndicate's accountant thirty years ago. He knew where every body was buried. He knew the offshore accounts of every boss in New York.

And more importantly, he knew the names of the corrupt politicians and federal judges who protected them.

I grabbed my coat and walked downstairs to the study.

Marco was standing behind his desk, barking orders into a secure phone, loading a fresh magazine into his handgun.

I walked up to the desk, slammed my hand down on the mahogany wood, and disconnected his call.

Marco stared at me in shock. “Catherine, what are you doing? I’m mobilizing the men!”

“Stand down the men, Marco,” I said firmly.

“Catherine, you don't understand. New York is coming—”

“I understand perfectly!” I snapped, my voice echoing in the large room. I slammed the silver pocket watch and the tiny microfilm onto the desk between us.

Marco frowned, looking at the film. “What is that?”

“It’s my father’s insurance policy,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “It is the complete financial records of the New York Commission. Accounts, bribes, blackmail. Everything.”

Marco’s eyes widened in absolute disbelief. “How... Catherine, this is a death sentence for the entire East Coast syndicate. If the feds get this, they all go to prison forever.”

“Exactly,” I said, picking up his secure phone.

I dialed a number I had memorized from Marco’s files years ago.

“Catherine, wait!” Marco panicked. “Who are you calling?”

The line clicked.

“FBI Organized Crime Division, Agent Harris speaking.”

I looked at my husband. The man I loved. The man I was going to save, whether he liked it or not.