THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME CARRY A HEAVY SOUP TRAY PRESSED AGAINST MY HIP—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “HER HAND GOT CAUGHT IN THE LINEN CLOSET,” BEFORE HE HAD ASKED WHY I COULDN’T HOLD IT NORMALLY.** I almost made it to the table. Six more steps.

The suppressed handgun was terrifying.

But the drawing in Julian’s hand shattered me.

“Where is he?” I screamed, lunging forward.

I didn’t care that Julian had a gun. I didn’t care that Luca Moretti was sitting three feet away. All I saw was the blue crayon. The jagged little roof my son had drawn before he ate his cereal.

Luca moved faster than I thought a human being could.

He shot out of his leather chair, catching me by the waist with one arm and yanking me hard behind his body, shielding me from Julian’s weapon.

“Stay behind me,” Luca ordered, his voice a low, vibrating growl.

Julian didn’t raise the gun. His hand was trembling so violently the barrel shook against his thigh.

“Where is her son, Julian?” Luca asked, his voice projecting a lethal, calculated calm.

“He’s safe,” Julian choked out, tears welling in his eyes. “He’s asleep in the carriage house. One of my men is sitting outside his door. He hasn’t been touched, Luca. I swear to God.”

“Then why are you holding that drawing, and why are you holding a gun on me?”

The history between the two men filled the room. Julian’s father had been the consigliere to Luca’s father. They had bled together, mourned together, and built an empire together. Julian betraying Luca was like a man cutting off his own arm.

“Vanessa has Mia,” Julian confessed, a sob breaking in his chest.

That was the answer to the first secret. But it tore open a massive, gaping hole for another.

“Vanessa’s sister isn’t in Switzerland,” Julian continued, wiping his face with the back of the hand holding the drawing. “Vanessa has had her hidden in a safehouse in Boston for three years. She told me if I didn’t help her get into your private safe tonight, she would sell Mia to the Romanians.”

Luca’s expression didn’t change, but the air in the room grew heavy.

“Why do you care about Vanessa’s sister, Julian?”

Julian looked up, his eyes utterly broken.

“Because she isn’t Vanessa’s sister. She’s my daughter.”

The reversal hit Luca like a physical blow.

Julian. The eternal bachelor. The loyal soldier. He had a twelve-year-old child with a woman he could never publicly claim.

“Vanessa found out,” Julian whispered. “She used the guardianship papers to prove she had legal control over her. She told me if I didn’t pull the trigger on you tonight—before you said ‘I do’—I would never see my little girl again.”

“And the boy?” Luca asked, gesturing slightly behind him toward me. “Why involve Claire’s son?”

“Vanessa panicked when Claire found the camera,” Julian said. “She knew Claire had the memory card. She ordered me to secure the kid to make sure Claire kept her mouth shut until the job was done.”

Julian finally raised the gun, aiming it at Luca’s chest.

His hand was shaking uncontrollably.

“I don’t want to do this, brother,” Julian wept. “But she’ll kill my little girl.”

“Julian, listen to me,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a register of profound, steady authority. “If you shoot me, you won’t make it out of this hallway. My capos will tear you apart. You will die, and your daughter will still be in Vanessa’s hands.”

Julian squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t have a choice!”

“Yes, you do,” Luca said. “You put the gun down. You tell me where the safehouse in Boston is. And I swear on my father’s grave, I will bring your daughter home.”

Julian opened his eyes. He looked at the man he had called a brother for thirty years.

Slowly, agonizingly, Julian lowered the weapon.

He dropped it onto the Persian rug.

Then, he dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands, weeping like a child.

Luca didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, picked up the gun, and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. He reached down, grabbed Julian by the collar of his tuxedo, and hauled him to his feet.

“Where is my son’s guard?” I demanded, stepping out from behind Luca, snatching Leo’s drawing from Julian’s limp hand.

“Back stairwell of the carriage house,” Julian gasped. “His name is Marco. He won’t shoot. He’s just watching the door.”

Luca looked at me. “We’re getting your boy.”

He shoved Julian into the heavy leather armchair.

“Stay here. Do not move. If you warn Vanessa, I won’t just kill you. I’ll erase you.”

Luca grabbed my uninjured right hand. His grip was firm, warm, and entirely protective.

We slipped out the side door of the study, plunging into the dark, narrow servant corridors that ran like veins through the massive estate.

We moved in silence. I knew these halls perfectly. I knew which floorboards creaked. I guided Luca through the kitchen, out the back pantry door, and into the biting chill of the Chicago night.

The carriage house was a hundred yards away, separated by a manicured hedge maze.

We reached the back stairwell.

Sure enough, a man in a dark suit was standing on the landing, smoking a cigarette.

Luca moved like a ghost. He crept up the stairs, grabbed the man by the back of his jacket, and slammed the butt of Julian’s gun into the base of his skull. The man crumpled without a sound.

I rushed past them, fumbling with my keys with my one good hand.

I unlocked the door to my apartment and pushed it open.

“Leo!” I called out, my voice cracking with panic.

The small living room was dark.

I ran into the single bedroom.

The bed was unmade. The sheets were thrown back.

But the bed was empty.

“Leo!” I screamed, dropping to my knees, checking under the bed. Nothing.

Luca turned on the bedside lamp.

He didn’t look under the bed. He looked at the window.

The glass was shattered. The cold night wind was blowing the cheap curtains inward.

And resting on the windowsill was a small, silver object.