THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE PINK COAT

Vincent stood in my kitchen, the silenced barrel of his pistol aimed squarely at my heart.

For twenty years, this man had called me "Donna Catherine." He had brought me flowers on my birthday. He had carried Marco out of burning buildings.

Now, he was standing beside my husband’s mistress, ready to end my life.

“Vincent,” I said, my voice remarkably calm despite the violent pounding in my chest. “You’re making a mistake.”

Vincent’s scarred cheek twitched. He didn't look at me with hatred. He looked at me with the cold, dead eyes of a businessman closing a bad deal.

“Nothing personal, Catherine,” Vincent said smoothly. “Marco got soft. He let a six-year-old girl and a New York syndicate back him into a corner. I’m just securing the future of the Chicago family.”

“By handing it over to a Rossi?” I scoffed, glaring at Olivia.

Olivia smirked, stepping closer to Vincent and resting a manicured hand on his leather-clad arm.

“By merging our families,” Olivia corrected. “Vincent and I have a mutual understanding. He gets the Chicago ports. I get the title, the estate, and Marco’s life insurance. It’s a very lucrative partnership.”

My stomach churned.

They had planned this perfectly. Marco was bleeding out upstairs in the yellow room, trapped in a house surrounded by heavily armed traitors. Lily was hidden in a dumbwaiter shaft. And I was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

“Where is Marco?” Vincent demanded, stepping forward. “My men said he lost them three miles from the restaurant.”

“He’s dead,” I lied without missing a beat.

Both Vincent and Olivia froze.

“What?” Olivia snapped.

“He bled out in the car before he could even reach the gates,” I said, locking eyes with Vincent. “I pushed his body out into the ravine on Route 9. If you want him, go fish him out.”

Vincent lowered the gun just a fraction, his brow furrowing in doubt.

“You’re lying. Marco wouldn't go down that easy.”

“Believe what you want,” I said, lifting my chin. “But if you pull that trigger, Vincent, you will never find out where I hid the child.”

Olivia’s face flushed with fury. She lunged forward, grabbing the collar of my blouse.

“Where is my daughter?!” she screamed, her perfectly polished facade finally cracking.

“She isn't your daughter,” I hissed back, pushing her hands away with a violent shove that sent her stumbling backward into Vincent. “You have never loved that child for a single second. She is a pawn to you.”

Vincent caught Olivia, stabilizing her. He looked at his watch, growing impatient.

“Search the house,” Vincent barked to the two guards standing by the door. “Tear down the walls if you have to. Find the kid. And find out if Marco is really dead.”

The guards nodded and rushed out of the kitchen.

“As for you,” Vincent said, grabbing my arm with a crushing grip. “You’re coming with me.”

He dragged me out of the kitchen, down the long, dim hallway that led to the basement. He kicked open the heavy iron door of our wine cellar and shoved me down the stone stairs.

I stumbled, catching the wooden handrail just in time to stop myself from cracking my head open on the concrete floor.

Vincent walked down the steps behind me. The cellar was freezing, smelling of damp earth and aged oak.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing his gun at a wooden chair in the center of the room.

I sat.

Vincent took off his heavy leather coat and threw it over a rack of expensive vintage wines. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos of the Chicago syndicate.

“I didn't want it to end this way, Catherine,” Vincent said quietly, pacing in front of me. “But Marco brought this on himself. The moment he slept with a Rossi, he signed his own death warrant.”

“You betrayed him,” I whispered, tears of absolute rage finally burning my eyes. “He loved you like a brother.”

“This is business!” Vincent snapped, hitting a wooden wine barrel with his fist. “There is no brotherhood when millions of dollars are on the line!”

He turned his back to me for a split second, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

It was the only opening I was going to get.

I didn't hesitate. I didn't think about being a fifty-five-year-old woman. I thought about the man bleeding upstairs and the little girl hiding in the dark.

I lunged forward, grabbing the heavy, solid glass bottle of a 1982 Bordeaux from the rack beside me.

With every ounce of strength I possessed, I swung the bottle directly at the back of Vincent’s head.

CRACK.

The thick glass shattered upon impact. Dark red wine exploded everywhere, covering the stone walls like blood.

Vincent let out a choked groan. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed to the concrete floor in a heavy, lifeless heap.

I stood over him, gasping for air, the jagged neck of the broken bottle still gripped in my bleeding hand.

I didn't wait for him to wake up.

I kicked his gun away, sliding it under the wine racks where he couldn't reach it.

Then, my eyes fell on the heavy leather coat he had thrown over the rack.

Something was sticking out of the inside pocket. A thick, folded envelope.

I pulled it out and opened it.

Inside was a stack of bearer bonds—untraceable money. Millions of dollars.

But it wasn't the money that made my heart stop.

It was the small, gold signet ring resting at the bottom of the envelope.

It bore the crest of the New York Commission. The ultimate governing body of the mafia.

Vincent hadn't just made a deal with Olivia. He had made a deal with the Commission to wipe out the entire Bellini bloodline tonight.

They were coming.

I shoved the ring into my pocket, grabbed Vincent’s keys, and ran up the cellar stairs. I locked the heavy iron door behind me, trapping the traitor in the dark.