Full Story: THE MAFIA BOSS WAS IN A 49-DAY COMA. THEN MY 3-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER SIPPED PAST THE FORBIDDEN DOOR AND SANG TO HIM—AND HIS HEART FINALLY BEAT.

The hallway of the ground floor was deathly quiet as I pushed my stainless-steel laundry cart over the polished marble tiles. The heavy brass key lay buried beneath a stack of damp white sheets at the very bottom of the bucket, right beside Mia’s gray stuffed rabbit, which she had insisted I take along for "good luck."

My hands were trembling so badly I could barely grip the handle of the cart.

Ahead of me, the double doors to Lorenzo Moretti’s private study loomed like a dark monument. True to her word, Isabella had executed her distraction brilliantly. From the direction of the staff kitchen, I could hear the booming, irritated voice of one of Marco’s bodyguards complaining about the coffee blend, followed by Isabella’s sharp, corrective tone keeping them occupied.

I reached the heavy mahogany door of the study. I glanced nervously down the empty corridor, inserted the brass key into the old-fashioned lock, and turned it.

Click.

The door swung inward with a soft, smooth motion. I slipped inside, pulling the heavy door shut behind me, plunging myself into the rich, shadowed interior of the room that smelled of old leather, cigar smoke, and polished mahogany.

The curtains were drawn tight against the morning sun, leaving only faint shafts of light slicing through the dimness. I rushed across the room toward the massive oil painting of Lorenzo’s grandfather that hung behind the oversized executive desk.

Following Lorenzo’s precise instructions, I reached up, grabbed the heavy gilded frame, and swung the canvas outward on its hidden hinges.

Behind it was a heavy steel wall safe, fitted with a vintage combination dial.

Damn it, I thought, panic flaring in my chest. He didn't give me the combination!

I cursed under my breath, my fingers frantically pressing against the dial. Was there a note? Did he leave the numbers somewhere?

Then I remembered the small piece of paper Lorenzo had pressed into my palm right before I left the medical suite—a folded napkin I had tucked into the pocket of my apron without looking at it.

I pulled the napkin out, unfolding it rapidly in the dim light. Scrawled in Lorenzo’s sharp, jagged handwriting were three numbers: 19-84-38.

My hands shaking, I spun the dial.

Left to 19.

Right to 84.

Left to 38.

I grabbed the heavy steel handle and pulled down.

Clack.

The heavy iron door swung open. Inside, resting on a velvet-lined shelf, was a thick, leather-bound black ledger labeled MORETTI & SONS: INTERNAL AUDIT. Beneath it sat a heavy stack of bearer bonds and a flash drive.

I grabbed the ledger and the flash drive, shoving them deep into the bottom of my apron pocket just as a heavy, unmistakable sound echoed from the hallway outside.

Footsteps.