THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME TO THROW HIS DEAD MOTHER’S WEDDING DRESS IN THE TRASH—BUT WHEN I CARRIED IT INTO THEIR ENGAGEMENT PHOTOGRAPHS, HE DROPPED TO HIS KNEES AND BEGGED ME NOT TO PUT IT DOWN.

The marble foyer started to spin.

“That’s impossible,” I whispered, clutching the wedding dress tighter. “My father died in a factory accident when I was eight.”

“Did he?” Vanessa sneered, suddenly regaining her confidence. She took a step toward me. “Did your precious seamstress mother tell you that? Because according to the police report from twenty years ago, the driver who ran the Moretti car off the bridge died on impact. His body was never claimed.”

I shook my head, tears springing to my eyes. “No. My father was a good man. He didn’t hurt anyone.”

Luca stepped between me and Vanessa.

He wasn’t looking at me with anger. He was looking at me with intense, terrifying focus.

“Emma,” Luca said softly. “Look in the box again. What else is in there?”

I moved closer, my legs trembling.

Inside the small wooden box, resting beneath where the watch had been, was a stack of letters tied with a blue ribbon. And resting on top of them was a faded, folded piece of paper.

I reached out and picked it up.

I unfolded it.

It was a child’s drawing.

Drawn in clumsy crayon was a picture of a little girl in a blue dress, standing next to a tall man in a black suit.

My breath caught in my throat.

“I drew this,” I whispered.

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“I did,” I insisted, my voice cracking. I turned the paper around. “Look. I signed it on the back. To Mr. M. From Emma.”

Luca stared at the signature.

“Mr. M,” he repeated. “My father.”

“Why would my father have a drawing from you, Emma?”

I didn’t know. I was only eight when he died.

But as I looked at the drawing, a memory flashed in my mind. The smell of expensive cedar. The sound of a sewing machine. My mother, crying in the middle of the night, holding a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

I looked down at the wedding dress in my arms.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice suddenly steady. “My mother didn’t just make this dress. She was your mother’s best friend.”

Vanessa laughed. A harsh, ugly sound. “A seamstress? Best friends with the most powerful woman in Chicago? Don’t be delusional.”

Luca ignored her. He looked at the torn lace hem of the dress in my arms.

“You said the embroidery on Vanessa’s veil was identical,” Luca said.

I nodded. “Yes. But... it wasn’t just the blue flowers.”

I ran my fingers along the inside lining of the heavy satin skirt. My mother had taught me how to find blind seams. The kind used to hide things.

My fingers caught on a thick, uneven stitch near the waistline.

“May I?” I asked Luca.

He nodded once.

I pulled the thread. The seam unraveled instantly.

A small, heavy object dropped from the lining and clattered onto the marble floor.