THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME KEEP MY LEFT HAND UNDER THE TABLE WHILE SERVING HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CAUGHT IT IN THE SILVERWARE DRAWER,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY MY FINGERS WERE SWOLLEN

The breakfast room of the Moretti estate was bathed in crisp morning sunlight that poured through twenty-foot arched windows, illuminating the polished mahogany table and silver service. But no amount of sunshine could cut through the arctic chill that settled over the room when Arturo Bellini arrived.

Arturo was sixty-two, with slicked-back silver hair, cold reptilian eyes, and the immaculate tailoring of an old-world aristocrat. Two hulking bodyguards stood outside the double doors, flanked by Daniel and three of Luca’s men, their hands resting noticeably close to their jackets.

I stood two paces behind Luca’s right shoulder, wearing the high-collared charcoal wool dress. The fabric was soft, but the splint on my left hand felt heavy and conspicuous. Every time Vanessa glanced across the table, her eyes darted to my bandaged fingers, a mixture of panic and venom twisting her features.

"Luca, my boy," Arturo said, slicing into a blood-orange with a silver fruit knife. The blade cut clean through the crimson flesh. "A tragedy about that fellow at the gate. Daniel tells me the police suspect a carjacking gone wrong."

"The police believe what I pay them to believe, Arturo," Luca said smoothly, taking a slow sip of black coffee. He hadn't touched his food. "We both know it wasn't a carjacking."

Arturo set his knife down with a soft click against the porcelain plate. "Chicago is becoming unpredictable. The Rossis are testing boundaries. That's why this wedding must happen quickly. Once our families unite, Marco Rossi won't dare push into the northern wards."

"Is that why Keller was killed?" Luca asked. The question was delivered so casually it sounded like an inquiry about the weather.

Vanessa’s water glass trembled against her lips.

Arturo didn't miss a beat. "Keller? I have no idea who that is."

Luca reached into his inner suit pocket and withdrew a small, leather-bound notebook. It was stained at the edges—dark, rusty brown spots where arterial blood had dried into the paper.

Vanessa gasped softly, pressing a napkin to her mouth.

"Daniel found this inside the lining of Keller's jacket," Luca said, placing the ledger in the center of the table, right between the butter dish and the fresh croissants. "Andrew Keller was a very meticulous man, Arturo. He didn't just locate stolen jewelry. He kept records of who hired him, what he was hired to appraise, and where the buyer planned to sell it."

Arturo’s eyes flicked to the ledger, then slowly up to Luca. "Luca, if you have an accusation to make, make it like a man. Don't play parlor games at the breakfast table."

"It's not a game," Luca said. He motioned to me without looking back. "Nora."

My heart leaped into my throat. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"

"Turn to page fourteen," Luca commanded softly. "Read the entry dated three days ago."

Vanessa slammed her hands on the table, standing up so violently her chair scraped against the hardwood. "Luca, this is insane! She's a maid! You're going to humiliate me and my father by having a South Side nobody read some fabricated garbage from a dead criminal?!"

"Sit down, Vanessa," Arturo commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of an iron hammer.

Vanessa hesitated, trembling with fury, but she slowly sank back into her seat.

I stepped forward. My knees shook, but I forced my right hand to remain steady as I opened the stained leather notebook. The pages smelled faintly of copper and cheap cologne. I found page fourteen. The handwriting was tight, slanted, and hurried.

"Read it," Luca repeated gently.

I took a deep breath, projecting my voice across the silent room.

"'October 12th. Met with V.B. at the Moretti residence,'" I read, my voice steadying with every word. "'Inspected the Caterina Moretti emerald necklace. Confirmed paste replica has already been placed in the vault. The genuine piece—fifty-two carats of Colombian emeralds—has been transferred to Marco Rossi's private broker in Montreal. Deposit of 1.5 million cleared into the Cayman account under Bellini Holdings. Balance of two million due upon execution of the merger contract at the wedding.'"

Silence crashed down over the breakfast table like a falling chandelier.

Vanessa looked like she was about to vomit.

Arturo, however, didn't panic. He slowly leaned back in his chair, folding his linen napkin with deliberate care. When he looked at his daughter, his eyes were devoid of any paternal warmth.

"You clumsy little fool," Arturo whispered.

Vanessa flinched. "Papa, I had to! You told me we were bankrupt! You said Rossi was going to take our house in Lake Forest if we didn't give him an initial payment—"

"Shut up," Arturo said coldly. He turned his attention back to Luca. "She acted on bad advice, Luca. Young people panic when they see balance sheets in the red. But the necklace can be recovered. I will personally contact Rossi’s broker in Montreal and buy it back—"

"You won't buy back anything, Arturo," Luca interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that made the temperature in the room plummet. "Because you don't have the money. And more importantly, you don't understand what Keller was actually doing."

Luca reached into his pocket again and tossed a second piece of paper onto the table. It was a folded bank receipt.

"That 1.5 million didn't go to Bellini Holdings," Luca said. "Keller was working for Marco Rossi from the beginning. He pocketed the necklace, wired fifty thousand dollars to Vanessa to keep her quiet, and sent the emeralds directly to Marco's personal safe in downtown Chicago. Keller wasn't killed by my men, Arturo. Marco had him murdered and dropped at my doorstep to see how I would react."

Arturo’s silver brows furrowed. "Marco has the necklace?"

"Marco has the necklace that belonged to my mother," Luca said, standing up. He towered over the older man, his presence utterly suffocating. "And he believes that within forty-eight hours, I will be married to your treacherous daughter, giving his syndicate a backdoor into my supply chains."

Luca leaned down, planting his palms on the table, staring directly into Arturo’s cold eyes.

"The wedding is still on," Luca said.

Vanessa looked up, sheer disbelief replacing her terror. "What?"

"We are going through with the ceremony," Luca said, his gaze shifting to Vanessa. The look he gave her made her shiver. "The press will be there. The heads of all five Chicago families will be there. Marco Rossi will be there, expecting to watch me place a fake ring on a deceitful bride."

Luca straightened up and turned to me.

"Nora," he said, loud enough for every guard outside the door to hear. "You will accompany me to my downtown offices today. We need to prepare the guest list. And you, Vanessa, will remain in your suite. If you touch a telephone, if you step out onto the balcony, or if you speak a single word to anyone other than Mrs. Carter, Daniel will ensure you don't live to see your wedding day."

Arturo stood up, his jaw clenched. "Luca, she is my daughter—"

"And you are an old dog whose teeth have fallen out," Luca snarled, his voice finally cracking with absolute rage. "Be thankful I am letting you walk out of my house alive this morning, Arturo. Be at the cathedral on Saturday. Walk her down the aisle. Play your part. Because if you miss a single cue, I will burn the Bellini name out of this city until there is nothing left but ash."

Arturo stared at him for five long seconds. Then, without saying another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving his daughter weeping into her silk napkins.

Luca turned to me, his breathing deep and even, completely in control once more.