THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE TOLD ME TO KEEP AN OLD CLEANER’S HOMEMADE LASAGNA AWAY FROM THE DINNER TABLE BECAUSE “SHE’S STAFF, NOT FAMILY”—BUT WHEN VINCENT ROMANO TASTED IT, HE ASKED WHO HAD MADE HER PAY TO ATTEND HIS FATHER’S MEMORIAL. “She can leave it by the sink.” Celeste Marchesi didn’t look at the old woman. She looked at me. In my hands was a dented metal baking tin. Inside lay a lasagna wrapped in foil. A little tomato sauce had leaked onto the towel beneath it. “It’s for Vincent,” the woman said. Celeste adjusted the diamond bracelet on her wrist. “Mr. Romano.” The woman nodded. “Of course.” Her name was Ada Ferri. She was seventy-five. For thirty-two years, she had cleaned the Romano family home. Tonight, she wore her best black dress under an old wool coat. At her collar was a small silver brooch. “I made his father’s favorite,” she said. Celeste glanced toward the dining room. “This is a private memorial dinner.” “I received an invitation.” “An invitation to pay your respects. Not to join the family table.” Ada’s fingers tightened around her purse. My name is Grace Miller. I was twenty-nine and had worked in the house for six months. I had spent all afternoon polishing silver. Now I stood holding food made by a woman who wasn’t being offered a chair. “I can ask Mr. Romano,” I said. Celeste stepped between me and the doorway. “You can follow instructions.” Ada touched my elbow. “Don’t risk your job, sweetheart.” She reached into her purse. “I only need a receipt before I go.” Celeste’s expression changed. “For what?” I asked. Ada looked confused. “The contribution.” Celeste answered quickly. “The memorial fund.” Ada nodded. “Five thousand dollars.” I nearly dropped the tin. Celeste lowered her voice. “Grace. Kitchen.” I carried the lasagna away. But I didn’t leave it by the sink. Twenty minutes later, Vincent Romano sat at the head of the table. A photograph of his father stood beside an arrangement of white flowers. Guests spoke softly over their plates. I placed a small serving of lasagna before him. Celeste saw the sauce. “Grace, we already have a menu.” Vincent picked up his fork. “Then we have one more dish.” He tasted it. His eyes moved toward the kitchen door. “Is Ada here?” “Yes, sir.” “Why hasn’t anyone brought her in?” Celeste folded her napkin. “She didn’t want to interrupt.” Ada was still waiting in the hallway. Vincent went to her himself. “You came.” “I wouldn’t miss it.” He looked at the tin in my hands. “You remembered.” Ada smiled. “Your father always wanted the corner piece.” Vincent laughed once. Then his eyes filled. “He said it was the only part worth fighting over.” He brought her to the table. Celeste moved her handbag onto the empty chair beside her. Vincent picked it up and handed it back. “Ada sits here.” I fetched another place setting. Ada took off her coat. A small envelope slipped from its pocket. Vincent bent to retrieve it. Across the front was written: MEMORIAL CONTRIBUTION — PAID. He looked at Ada. “What is this?” She glanced at Celeste. “My payment.” “For what?” “The dinner.” Vincent stared at her. “You paid to come here?” Celeste leaned forward. “It was a donation.” Ada shook her head. “You said there was a minimum.” Silence spread down the table. Vincent turned to Celeste. “A minimum?” “To support the foundation.” “What foundation?” She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Ada looked from one face to another. “I didn’t mind helping. I just thought I should get a receipt.” Vincent opened the envelope. Inside was a bank deposit slip. He read the account name. MARCHESI PRIVATE EVENTS. Celeste’s company. “This didn’t go to a foundation.” “I paid for the flowers,” she said. Vincent looked at the arrangements. Then at Ada. “Where did you get five thousand dollars?” Ada smoothed her napkin. “I had some savings.” Celeste exhaled. “There. No one forced her.” Ada kept her eyes lowered. “Not quite enough savings.” Vincent waited. “I sold something.” “What?” “The watch your father gave me when I retired.” Vincent’s hand stopped on the envelope. Ada tried to smile. “He always said it was valuable.” At the far end of the table, an elderly man put down his glass. Then a woman opened her evening bag. She withdrew an envelope identical to Ada’s. “I was told there was a minimum, too,” she said. Vincent looked around the table. “Who else paid?” One hand rose. Then another. Celeste pushed back her chair. Vincent turned toward her. “How many invitations did you sell?”

At four in the morning, Damian left the estate with Matteo to personally oversee the seizure of Marco’s corporate offices downtown.

The mansion settled into an uneasy, suffocating quiet.

I stayed on the second floor, sitting outside Elena’s bedroom door to ensure she slept peacefully. The poor woman had spent weeks living in terror, but under the heavy down comforter of the Moretti estate, her breathing was slow and steady for the first time in months.

Around four-thirty, I went down to the first-floor pantry to prepare a fresh tray of chamomile tea for the morning.

As I stepped into the dimly lit hallway near the service entrance, a shadow moved behind the marble pillars.

Before I could turn on the wall sconce, a hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, twisting it violently.

I gasped, dropping the silver tea tin.

“You filthy little rat.”

Bianca De Luca stood in the shadows.

She had somehow slipped past the guard outside the guest wing, using an old service key that the estate staff had forgotten to revoke.

Her evening gown was wrinkled, her makeup smeared with rage, and her eyes held a frantic, dangerous light.

In her left hand, she held a small silver revolver.

“Miss De Luca,” I said, forcing my voice to remain completely steady despite the cold panic rising in my throat. “Put the gun away. There are armed guards throughout the courtyard.”

“Shut up!” she hissed, pressing the cold steel barrel directly under my chin. “You think you’re clever, Bennett? You think slipping that peasant’s moldy bread onto Damian’s plate made you a hero?”

“I did my job,” I said, staring directly into her bloodshot eyes.

“You ruined my life!” she spat, her voice trembling with hysteria. “That wedding was worth three hundred million dollars in port logistics alone! My family was going to control the entire East Coast corridor! And you threw it all away for a seventy-year-old beggar who should have died in the gutter years ago!”

“Elena Vitale has more honor in her flour-stained apron than your entire bloodline possesses,” I retorted.

Bianca’s eyes flared with venom. She raised her hand to strike me with the butt of the gun.

“I’m going to make sure they find your body in the harbor before Damian gets back from downtown—”

Click.

The distinct, mechanical sound of a heavy-caliber slide pulling back echoed through the narrow hallway.

From the shadow of the pantry archway stepped two Moretti enforcers with automatic rifles trained directly on Bianca’s skull.

Behind them stood Vincent, holding a tablet computer.

“I wouldn't pull that trigger, Miss De Luca,” Vincent said calmly.

Bianca froze, the revolver trembling in her grip.

“You’re on private Moretti property without authorization,” Vincent continued, his voice monotone and devoid of emotion. “Threatening house staff under Mr. Moretti’s personal protection constitutes an act of war under syndicate law.”

“I am his fiancée!” she shrieked.

“You were his fiancée,” Vincent corrected her, adjusting his glasses. “As of ten minutes ago, the legal dissolution of your betrothal was ratified by the Five Borough Council. Your father has already surrendered his harbor rights to Damian in exchange for Marco’s life.”

Bianca’s jaw dropped. The revolver slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the hardwood floor.

“My... my father gave up the harbor?”

“Your father knows when a battle is lost,” Vincent said. He gestured to the two guards. “Take Miss De Luca to the holding annex at the front gates. Confiscate the firearm. If she resists, use whatever force is necessary.”

The two large men stepped forward, seized Bianca’s arms, and dragged her toward the double doors.

She didn't scream this time.

The reality of her total ruin had finally broken through her arrogance.

Vincent walked over to me, picked up the dropped tea tin, and handed it back to me with a courteous nod.

“Are you unharmed, Lucy?”

“I’m fine, Vincent,” I breathed, rubbing my bruised wrist. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me,” Vincent said with a slight smile. “Damian anticipated she might try something desperate. He left four men specifically tasked with protecting you and Mrs. Vitale while he cleared the city.”