THE SCISSORS IN THE STUDY

Dominic’s eyes never left Victor’s hand.

Victor’s fingers hovered inches above his phone, frozen by the sudden, chilling shift in Dominic’s voice. The dining room behind them had gone entirely silent, but inside the private study, the air felt thick enough to choke on.

“Don’t make a call, Victor,” Dominic said softly.

It wasn't a request. It was an order from the head of the Bellini family.

Victor slowly pulled his hand back, forcing a tight, patronizing smile. “Dominic, you’re letting an old man’s senility and a maid’s bedtime story get to your head. I was just checking the time.”

Dominic didn't answer. He turned his attention to the heavy oak doors as they opened.

Claire stepped inside.

She looked pale, her dark eyes darting between the two men. In her right hand, she carried a pair of heavy, silver sewing scissors. They belonged to the estate, but they were identical to the ones she had watched her mother use for years.

“You asked for these, sir?” Claire asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Bring them here,” Dominic instructed.

He laid his grandfather’s old wool coat flat on the mahogany desk. The gray lining was exposed, the tiny, perfectly doubled blue stitches catching the ambient light of the desk lamp.

“I need you to open the seam,” Dominic said. “Carefully. Don't damage whatever is inside.”

Claire swallowed hard. She stepped up to the desk. She could feel Victor Hale staring daggers into the side of her head.

With steady hands, she slipped the sharp tip of the silver scissors under the first blue thread. Snip.

She moved to the next. Snip.

As she worked, the tension in the room ratcheted higher. Dominic watched her fingers—the identical skill that her mother, Margaret, possessed. The skill that had cost Margaret the use of her right hand seventeen years ago.

Claire reached the end of the repaired section. She gently pulled the gray fabric back.

Tucked deep inside the wool batting was a small, flat oilskin pouch. It was yellowed with age, sealed tightly with wax.

Dominic picked it up. He broke the wax seal with his thumb and tipped the pouch over the desk.

Two objects slid out onto the polished wood.

The first was a faded, punch-hole baggage claim ticket from Union Station, dated October 14, 2009.

The second was a glossy photograph.

Dominic picked up the photograph. His jaw tightened instantly.

Claire leaned in slightly. The picture showed two men standing in a dimly lit warehouse. One was Joseph Mercer, the tailor. He looked terrified.

The other man was Victor Hale.

But Victor wasn't advising anyone in the photo. He was handing a thick, leather-bound ledger to a man wearing the colors of the Moretti family—the Bellinis' oldest and most violent rivals.

“Joseph didn't steal thirty thousand dollars from my father,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “He caught you selling our shipping ledgers to the Morettis. You embezzled the money to cover your tracks, and you framed the tailor.”

Victor’s face drained of color. The sophisticated adviser vanished, replaced by the desperate traitor he truly was.

“Dominic, you have to understand,” Victor stammered, backing toward the door. “Your father was weak. The Morettis were going to wipe us out. I did what I had to do to survive!”

“And Margaret Dawson?” Dominic asked, stepping around the desk. “Did you crush her hand to survive, too?”

“She knew!” Victor snapped, his panic rising. “Joseph told her! I had to send a message. I had to make sure neither of them ever spoke to your grandfather!”

Claire gasped, covering her mouth. The man standing in front of her was the reason her mother had lived in pain and poverty for almost two decades.

Dominic closed the distance in two massive strides, his hand reaching for Victor’s throat.

But Victor was faster than he looked.

He reached into his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a small, snub-nosed revolver.

But he didn't aim it at Dominic.

He pointed the barrel directly at Claire’s chest.