“GET ON YOUR KNEES AND APOLOGIZE TO MY FATHER, OR I'LL MAKE SURE

“Her name was Sofia.”

The dining room didn't just go quiet. It stopped breathing.

Luca Moretti stared at me, his dark eyes widening in a way that made the scar on his jaw stand out sharply. The glass of whiskey in his hand tilted, the amber liquid spilling onto his knuckles.

He didn't seem to notice.

“Say that again,” Luca whispered, his voice cracking like dry wood.

I stood my ground, though my knees felt like water. “Claire told me her name was Sofia Romano. She said Sofia worked in this house twelve years ago. And she said Mr. Bellini was the reason Sofia vanished the night your brother died.”

Vanessa let out a shrill, forced laugh. “Luca, darling, the girl is hysterical. Sofia Romano? I’ve never heard that name in my life.”

Luca didn't look at his fiancée. He walked slowly around the heavy mahogany table until he was standing inches away from Richard Bellini.

“Twelve years ago,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, terrifying calm, “you told me Sofia took my family’s money and ran off with a rival boss. You told me she set up my brother Marco’s murder.”

Richard puffed out his chest, but sweat beaded on his forehead. “She did! Luca, are you going to listen to a maid over the man who helped rebuild your empire?”

“I’m listening to the silence,” Luca said softly.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, tarnished silver key. He threw it onto the table. It clattered against a china plate.

“Sofia left this behind,” Luca said. “It’s a safety deposit key. I spent a decade trying to find the box it belonged to. I never did.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Because she was a thief, Luca! She probably pawned whatever was inside.”

“Answer one,” Luca said, his eyes fixed on Richard. “Sofia didn't run away with the money. Because I found the money intact last week. So, Richard, why did Claire warn Emily about you using Sofia’s name?”

Richard sneered. “Claire was a liar. She was stealing from Vanessa. We caught her with a stolen necklace, and we fired her. That’s the truth.”

I couldn't stay quiet. I reached into my torn apron pocket.

“Claire didn't steal a necklace,” I said, my voice trembling but loud enough for all forty guests to hear.

I pulled out a delicate, silver chain holding a tiny emerald pendant.

Vanessa gasped, her hand flying to her throat.

“Claire gave this to me before she disappeared,” I said, setting it next to Luca’s key. “She said Vanessa bribed her with it to keep quiet about the night Marco died. But Claire couldn't live with the guilt anymore.”

Luca stared at the necklace. It was a family heirloom. His mother’s emerald.

He turned slowly to Vanessa.

“You told me you lost this in Paris.”

Vanessa stepped back, her heel catching on the carpet. “Luca, I can explain—”

“Arthur,” Luca called out to his head of security. “Clear the room. The engagement dinner is over. And lock the front gates. The Bellinis aren't leaving.”

Richard leaped up from his chair. “You can’t hold us here! I have men outside!”

“Your men work for me now,” Luca said coldly.

The guests scrambled out in terrifying silence. Within two minutes, the grand dining room was empty except for Luca, the Bellinis, and me.

Luca turned to me, his expression softening just a fraction. “Emily. You need to go upstairs. You aren't safe down here.”

“No,” I said, surprising myself. “Claire told me one more thing.”

Luca stopped. “What?”

“She said Sofia didn't leave empty-handed. She took something that belongs to you. And Mr. Bellini has been hunting for it for twelve years.”

Richard lunged at me. “Shut your mouth, you little—”

Before Richard could take two steps, Luca crossed the room and slammed the older man against the oak paneled wall. A framed painting crashed to the floor.

“What did she take, Richard?” Luca roared, the refined boss finally snapping.

Richard choked, clawing at Luca’s hands.

Suddenly, a heavy thud echoed from the hallway. The mahogany doors swung open.

Arthur stood there, breathing heavily. But he wasn't alone.

He was holding the arm of a terrified, dirty boy who looked to be about eleven years old.

And clutched tightly in the boy’s hands was a worn, leather-bound journal with the initials M.M. stamped in gold.

Marco Moretti.

“Boss,” Arthur said grimly. “We found this kid trying to break into the garage. He says he’s looking for Emily.”

I froze. I had never seen this child in my life.

The boy looked at me, his eyes wide and desperate.

“Are you Emily?” he asked, his voice shaking. “My mom said if anything ever happened to her, I had to find the maid named Emily. She said you were the only one who could open the box.”

He held up a tarnished silver locket.