TURN OFF THAT LIGHT, ELEANOR. HE DOESN'T COME HOME TO YOU ANYMORE.” THE MAFIA BOSS'S MISTRESS SAID IT WHILE HOLDING HIS HAND IN FRONT OF HIS WIFE—BUT WHEN THE WIFE FINALLY SWITCHED OFF THE LAMP SHE'D KEPT BURNING FOR THIRTY YEARS, HER HUSBAND DID SOMETHING THE YOUNGER WOMAN NEVER EXPECTED.

Bianca took a step back.

The confidence that had carried her into my home evaporated in a single second. "Vincent, don't be ridiculous. You gave it to me."

"I would rather cut off my own hand than touch her mother's rosary," Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave. The mafia boss I had known for thirty years was suddenly back in the room.

He moved toward Bianca, his shadow falling over her red dress. "Who has been in my house, Bianca?"

"Nobody!" she cried, her eyes darting toward the front door. "My father just—he wanted proof that you were committed to us! To Leo!"

I stood frozen by the window. My mother's rosary. Someone had been in my bedroom. Someone had gone through my things while I was downstairs waiting for a husband who was never coming home.

"Get out," I said quietly.

Bianca whipped her head toward me. "Excuse me?"

"Get out of my house," I repeated, my voice steady. "Before I call the men at the front gate."

"You don't own the gate anymore, Eleanor!" Bianca spat, suddenly vicious. "My father's men took over the perimeter twenty minutes ago. Why do you think Vincent brought me here tonight? He didn't come to break up with you. He came to surrender."

I looked at Vincent. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear.

He didn't deny it.

"Your father orchestrated this," Vincent said to Bianca, his voice dangerously soft. "The affair. The boy. All of it was leverage."

"It's business," Bianca said, lifting her chin. "And you owe us."

Vincent slowly took off his suit jacket and threw it over the armchair.

"Ellie," he said without looking at me. "Go to the kitchen. Lock the door."

"I'm not going anywhere," I said.

I walked over to his discarded jacket. I don't know why I did it. Thirty years of habit, perhaps. I reached into the inside pocket to pull out his reading glasses.

Instead, my fingers brushed against a piece of stiff, folded paper.

I pulled it out.

It was a faded blue train ticket.

Chicago to New York. November 14, 2016.

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

November 14, 2016. That was the weekend I had my final, devastating miscarriage. The weekend Vincent had told me he was trapped in a waterfront warehouse during a gang war, unable to get to the hospital.

I turned the ticket over.

On the back, drawn in a child's shaky crayon, was a picture of a little boy holding a man's hand. And underneath, written in a child's scrawl: To Daddy. Come back soon.

I held the ticket up. My hands were shaking so hard the paper rattled.

"You weren't at the waterfront," I whispered.

Vincent turned around. He saw the ticket. The color completely drained from his face.

"Ellie," he choked out.

"I lost our baby," I said, tears finally breaking free, blurring my vision. "I bled in a hospital bed alone, calling your name. And you were on a train to New York to see her."

Bianca smirked. "He came for Leo's first birthday."

"Shut your mouth!" Vincent roared, the sound echoing off the high ceilings like a gunshot.

Bianca flinched, stepping backward.

Vincent looked at me, his eyes filled with absolute agony. "Eleanor, please. Look at the date again. Look at the passenger name."

I wiped my eyes and looked at the faded ink.

The name on the ticket wasn't Vincent Moretti.

It was Marco Russo. Bianca's older brother. The man who had been murdered in New York ten years ago.

I looked up, confused. "This was Marco's ticket."

Vincent nodded slowly. "Marco didn't die in a gang war, Ellie. He died trying to protect that little boy from his own father."