“IF SHE CAN'T EVEN HOLD A FORK, SHE SHOULDN'T BE EATING WITH OUR GUESTS!” THE MAFIA BOSS'S FIANCÉE SLAPPED THE PLATE OUT OF HIS 23-YEAR-OLD MAID'S HANDS AS SHE TRIED TO HELP HIS TREMBLING MOTHER EAT—BUT WHEN THE ELDERLY WOMAN BENT DOWN TO PICK UP HER DINNER, THE MAID WHISPERED, “PLEASE, MA'AM

I scrambled off Cassandra, snatching the gold pendant from the floor.

It was heavy, meticulously crafted to look like a solid diamond setting, but the back was unclasped. A tiny, sealed plastic vial of clear liquid was nestled inside.

The real antidote.

Cassandra ripped the heavy winter coat off her head, gasping for air.

When she saw the pendant in my hand, her eyes widened in absolute panic.

“Give that back to me, you little rat!” she screamed, lunging for my ankles.

The coat room door burst open.

Lorenzo stepped inside.

He didn’t say a word. He simply grabbed Cassandra by the back of her red satin gown and hurled her against the wood-paneled wall.

She slumped to the floor, gasping, the fight instantly draining out of her at the sight of the gun in his hand.

“Clara, go!” Lorenzo roared.

I didn’t look back.

I sprinted down the hallway, my shoes skidding on the marble floors, my lungs burning.

I burst into the library.

Evelyn was lying on the Persian rug, her eyes closed, her breathing dangerously shallow. Her skin was terribly pale.

“Mrs. Moretti!” I cried, sliding to my knees beside her.

I fumbled with the tiny vial, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I managed to twist the cap off.

I lifted her head gently. “Drink this. Please, aunt Evelyn, drink it.”

I tipped the liquid past her lips.

She swallowed weakly.

For five agonizing seconds, nothing happened. The library was dead silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Then, Evelyn took a deep, shuddering breath.

The violent trembling in her hands began to slow. The color slowly returned to her cheeks.

She opened her eyes and looked up at me.

“You stayed,” she whispered.

Tears spilled down my face. “I told you. We protect our own.”

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Paramedics, called by Lorenzo’s security team, rushed into the room with a stretcher.

They lifted Evelyn carefully, attaching monitors and checking her vitals.

“The antidote stabilized her heart rate,” a paramedic said, looking at the empty vial. “Another ten minutes and she would have been gone. She needs a hospital, but she’s going to make it.”

I collapsed back onto my heels, the adrenaline leaving my body in a dizzying rush.

I looked up.

Lorenzo was standing in the doorway. His suit was wrinkled, his knuckles were bruised, but his dark eyes were fixed on me with a softness I had never seen before.

He walked over and extended a hand.

I took it, and he pulled me to my feet.

“Cassandra is in federal custody,” Lorenzo said quietly. “My men handed her over with the bloody rosary, the poisoned medication, and the confession she screamed in the coat room.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, folded document.

“And her father?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Arthur Bellamy was arrested ten minutes ago at his private airstrip,” Lorenzo said, a grim smile touching his lips. “Turns out, anonymous tips about decades-old murders and embezzlement are taken very seriously when backed by Moretti evidence.”

The nightmare was over.

The people who murdered my father and tormented my aunt were finally going to rot in a cell.

Lorenzo unfolded the document in his hand.

“My mother kept this safe for twenty-five years,” Lorenzo said, handing it to me.

I looked down.

It was a birth certificate.

Clara Moretti.

Father: Vincenzo Moretti.

I traced my true name with a trembling finger.

“You don't have to wear an apron anymore, Clara,” Lorenzo said softly. “You belong at that dining table. You always have.”

I looked up at him, my heart overflowing.

But before I could speak, a security guard stepped cautiously into the library.

“Mr. Moretti,” the guard said hesitantly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. But while we were clearing out Miss Bellamy’s belongings from the guest suite, we found something hidden in her luggage.”

Lorenzo’s expression hardened. “What is it?”

The guard stepped forward and placed a small, wrinkled piece of paper on the desk.

“It was addressed to you, sir.”

I walked over to the desk with Lorenzo.

It wasn't a threatening letter. It wasn't a financial document.

It was a child’s drawing, rendered in faded crayon.

It depicted a tall man holding the hand of a little girl with pigtails. At the bottom, written in wobbly, childish letters, were the words: To my big brother Enzo. Come find me.

Lorenzo stared at the drawing.

All the blood drained from his face. He gripped the edge of the desk so hard the wood groaned.

“Lorenzo?” I asked, frightened by his sudden pallor. “Who drew that?”

He picked up the drawing, his hands shaking worse than his mother’s ever had.

“My little sister, Isabella,” Lorenzo whispered, his voice cracking. “She drew this for me twenty years ago.”

I frowned. “I didn't know you had a sister.”

Lorenzo looked at me, his eyes wide with a sudden, desperate hope.

“I did,” Lorenzo said. “But Isabella was kidnapped when she was six years old. We were told she died in a fire.”

He looked back at the drawing, flipping it over.