THE MAFIA BOSS DISCOVERED HIS FIANCÉE HAD SECRETLY INVITED ONE OF HIS MOST DANGEROUS ENEMIES TO THEIR ENGAGEMENT DINNER, BUT THE REASON WAS FAR MORE SHOCKING THAN HE EXPECTED.

I had seen Dominic Caruso dozens of times without knowing what he was capable of.

He was Enzo's father's younger brother, a silver-haired man who dressed in soft cashmere sweaters and remembered the names of employees' children. Every Christmas, he sent baskets of expensive fruit to the staff. He had once given me fifty dollars because I stayed late to find his missing cuff link. In a family known for cold negotiations and guarded doors, Dominic played the warm uncle everybody wanted to trust.

Now his name appeared beneath three criminals on a secret guest list.

“That might not mean anything,” I said. I couldn't bear the look in Enzo's eyes.

“It means someone expected him to be involved,” Marco replied.

Enzo folded the list and slipped it into a clean evidence envelope that Dr. Chen found in her medical bag. “Nobody accuses Dominic without proof. Marco, find out exactly where he is. Quietly.”

“You want him detained?”

“Not yet. I want to hear what he says when he thinks this is over.”

A car horn sounded beyond the gates. Tessa arrived with my coat and purse, her dark curls escaping from the kitchen cap she'd forgotten to remove. The second she saw my face, her hand flew to her mouth.

“Ruby, oh my God.”

“I'm okay.”

“No, you're not. You're bleeding through the towel.”

Dr. Chen gave her the instructions for the emergency department. Tessa listened with an attention I wished I'd seen from Serena. Enzo stepped aside to give us room. The gesture was so ordinary that it was almost startling.

Before I left, I heard Marco confirm that the timer under the drinks station was part of a deliberately damaged electrical device. A specialist would have to determine what it could have done. It was enough to prove somebody had tampered with the catering equipment during a crowded dinner.

“The guests need to be moved away from that wing,” Enzo said. “Do it calmly, and call the authorities. I don't want staff handling a possible threat.”

Marco nodded. His face showed neither surprise nor relief. He seemed like a man who had been expecting the worst for years.

Tessa helped me into a waiting car. The autumn wind coming off Lake Michigan found every opening in my coat. Chicago's skyline glowed beyond the trees, beautiful and impossibly normal. People were going to concerts, standing in line for tacos, walking dogs beneath streetlights. Somewhere, my mother was probably wondering why I hadn't called after dinner service.

At the hospital, a nurse cut away the stained dressing from my cheek. She cleaned the wound while Tessa held my hand. I needed four stitches and imaging around my swollen eye. The doctor told me the bone appeared intact, though the bruising would worsen before it faded.

“Has someone hurt you at work?” the nurse asked privately.

I looked at my hands. “Yes.”

“Would you like to make a report?”

My first instinct was to shake my head. Then I remembered Costa's smile and Serena's certainty that no one would believe me.

“Yes,” I said. “I would.”

It was the smallest word I'd spoken all evening, and somehow the hardest.

A police officer came to take my statement. I told her the truth about the assault, the threat to my family, and the forged credentials. I didn't guess about what Serena knew beyond what I had witnessed. Tessa stayed beside me until dawn, then left to buy coffee and a phone charger.

My mother answered on the third ring.

“Ruby? Honey, what's wrong?”

I tried to sound calm. “Are you and Dad at home?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Can you lock the doors and stay away from the front windows for a little while? There was trouble at work. Security is checking the neighborhood.”

The silence that followed was awful.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“A little. I'm at the hospital, but I'm being treated.”

“Ruby.” Her voice cracked. “Don't protect us by making the truth smaller.”

I started crying then, in a bright hospital corridor beneath a vending machine humming with frozen meals.

I told her enough. Not everything. Just enough that she knew there was a danger and people were helping. My father took the phone and promised to stay inside until the police had checked the area. He told me he loved me twice, as if repeating it might make the city safer.

At six in the morning, a black sedan pulled up outside the emergency department. Enzo got out wearing the same suit he'd worn at dinner, now without a tie. His face showed the exhaustion the guests hadn't been allowed to see. He stopped a few feet away, careful not to crowd me.

“May I talk to you?”

Tessa looked at me. I nodded.

We sat at a small table in the hospital cafeteria, where the smell of burnt coffee covered everything else. Enzo bought tea he didn't drink. He apologized for coming so early. Then he told me that the police had cleared the mansion and that the dangerous device had been removed for examination.

“Is everyone okay?” I asked.

“Everyone got home safely. The catering employee is still missing.”

“And Costa?”

“He's been questioned. The police couldn't hold him on the information they had overnight. He's gone, but he's being investigated.”

I hated how easily someone could step back into the world after frightening so many people.

“Serena?”

“She's at her father's house. The engagement is off.”

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Enzo leaned forward. “I also spoke to your parents. With their permission, two uniformed officers checked the property. They found no one outside. I offered a hotel, but your father wanted to remain home.”

“That sounds like Dad.”

“He said you inherited your stubbornness from him.”

I almost smiled. Then I remembered the crossed-out name.

“Your uncle?”

Enzo looked down at his tea. “Dominic left the mansion before we could speak. His driver says he got a call during the confusion and went to his apartment. He isn't answering me.”

“Maybe he's frightened.”

“Maybe.” Enzo paused. “I asked him to identify Matteo's remains because my father was already dead and I couldn't bear to see what was left. Dominic handled the hospital, the paperwork, the funeral. I thanked him for carrying the part I couldn't.”

His voice changed on the last sentence.

“Why would he lie?” I asked.

“Money. Power. Revenge. None of those answers make him my uncle again.”

He rubbed a hand across his face and drew a deep breath. “The photograph could still be manipulated. I need a way to establish that Matteo is alive without handing Costa everything he wants.”

“The window,” I said.

Enzo looked at me.

“In the photograph. There's a stained-glass shape reflected in the window. I noticed it when you showed me. A little red bird.”

He retrieved the picture from a protective sleeve inside his coat and laid it on the table. I pointed to the faint image reflected beside Matteo's shoulder. It was barely larger than a thumbnail: red wings, a black circle, and a curved line that might be a branch.

“Does that mean anything to you?” he asked.

“No. But it looked like an old chapel window. My mother volunteers at church fairs. I've seen stained glass like that in buildings turned into offices.”

Enzo examined the image, then photographed it to send to an investigator working with his attorney.

“Ruby, you've already done more than anyone should have asked.”

“Nobody asked me. I found the list.”

“That's exactly why I need to be careful,” he said. “I can't turn your employment into an obligation to risk your life.”

I appreciated the sentence. I also hated that I was afraid to stop. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the photograph of my parents' house.

“There's something else,” I admitted. “When I was cleaning the guest room, Serena had a medical folder on the desk. Not a normal file. The cover had a small stamped cross and the letters B.H.”

He went completely still.

“B.H.?”

“Yes. I thought it was a charity letter.”

“Matteo volunteered at Briar Hollow Children's Hospital.” Enzo looked toward the windows. “Before the bombing, he helped them raise money for a rehabilitation center.”

“Could the folder have been from there?”

“Maybe. Or someone wanted me to think so.”

He stood as though he needed to move before his grief caught him. Then his phone rang. The screen showed his attorney's name.

“Caruso,” he answered.

I watched his face while the person on the other end spoke.

“Send me the archived paperwork,” he said. “All of it. Including the original transfer record.”

He listened again.

“Are you certain?”

When he hung up, his expression was different. Not relieved. Alert.

“The hospital that issued Matteo's death certificate never recorded an autopsy,” he said. “The remains were identified through documentation supplied by an outside physician. That physician has since disappeared.”

My skin prickled.

“So the certificate—”

“May have been obtained through fraud. We still need to prove it.”

Tessa returned with coffee and immediately sensed our change of mood. She set the cups down without speaking.

Enzo looked at me. “You need rest. I'll make sure the police have the information about your assault. Whatever happens next, you don't have to go back to the mansion.”

“What about my job?” I asked.

“Your wages will continue while you're recovering. That's not conditional on helping me.”

I believed he meant it. But as he left, I wondered if any of us could escape a problem that had already found our homes.

Two days later, I was released from follow-up treatment with instructions not to lift heavy trays. My stitches pulled whenever I smiled. The bruise around my eye had turned a spectacular mixture of violet and yellow. Tessa insisted I stay at her apartment because my parents' home was still being watched by the police.

That afternoon, an envelope arrived at the apartment. It had no return address, only my name written in block letters. Tessa wanted to call the officer immediately. I agreed, and we waited until she had photographed the envelope and told us how to handle it.

Inside was a single page torn from a hospital visitor log. Most of the lines were blank. One entry remained.

FEBRUARY 18 — M. CARUSO — TRANSFER APPROVED — D. CARUSO.

Beneath it, in thin blue handwriting, somebody had written:

I WAS THERE. ASK ABOUT THE WOMAN IN ROOM NINE.

The note had been signed with an initial.

I could barely make my voice work when I called Enzo.

“Somebody sent me proof your brother may have survived the bombing,” I said. “And I think there's a witness.”

For a moment, the connection was silent.

Then he asked one question.

“Ruby, did they put your address on the envelope?”

“No.”

“Then how did they know where to find you?”