BENEATH THE CHANDELIER

Evelyn stared at the map. Her workshop—an old, brick carriage house on Elm Street—was circled in faded red ink.

“My father died twelve years ago,” Rocco said, his voice barely carrying over the string quartet. “The police said it was a robbery gone wrong. The streets said it was a hit by a rival family. But he was clutching this watch.”

“Why my shop?” she asked, handing it back carefully. Her fingers brushed his. He was startlingly warm.

“I don’t know. I only found the hidden compartment three days ago.” Rocco looked around the ballroom. The whispers were growing louder. “My office. Tomorrow morning at nine. Can you look at the locking mechanism?”

“I’m a lighting restorer, not a watchmaker.”

“You’re a woman who notices things no one else does,” he corrected softly.

The next morning, Evelyn walked into Ventresca Enterprises. The building was sleek, legitimate, and intimidating. Frankie escorted her up to the top floor.

Rocco’s office was massive, overlooking the river. But what stopped Evelyn in her tracks wasn’t the view, or the imposing man behind the mahogany desk. It was the little girl sitting on the Persian rug, aggressively coloring a picture of a three-headed dog.

She had wild dark curls and big, solemn brown eyes. She looked to be about six.

“Mia,” Rocco said, his tone softening in a way that made Evelyn’s chest ache. “This is Miss Evelyn.”

Mia looked up. She studied Evelyn’s generous curves, her sensible boots, and the canvas tote bag over her shoulder.

“You don’t look like the skinny ladies Uncle Luca brings around,” Mia announced.

“Mia,” Rocco warned gently.

“It’s alright,” Evelyn smiled, kneeling with some effort in her tight pencil skirt. “I like cake too much to be skinny. Is that a Cerberus?”

Mia’s eyes widened. “You know about the hellhound?”

“I read a lot.”

Rocco watched them, a strange, tight expression on his face. “Mia is my late sister’s daughter. I’ve raised her since she was a baby.”

Not a mob boss. A father figure. Evelyn’s perspective of the terrifying Rocco Ventresca shifted violently.

Rocco slid the watch across the desk. Evelyn took out her magnifying loupe. As she worked the delicate inner gears with a tiny screwdriver, the back plate popped loose entirely. A small, tightly folded piece of parchment fell out onto the blotter.

Rocco unfolded it. It was a receipt from a pawnbroker, dated twenty years ago.

The item pawned: A Ventresca family heirloom ring.

The signature of the pawnbroker: Thomas Hartwell.

Evelyn gasped. “My father? But he owned a respectable antique business. He wasn’t a pawnbroker for—” She stopped herself.

“For the mob?” Rocco finished, his voice flat.