THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME SERVE HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER WITH MY HAIR COVERING ONE EYE

The stainless steel surfaces of the estate's main kitchen were blindingly bright under the halogen lighting. Chef Henri was barking orders at three sous-chefs who were frantically plating the roasted duck with cherry reduction.

Marco, the head butler who had run the Moretti household for over two decades, stood near the order window with a leather-bound clipboard. As soon as he saw me walk through the swinging doors with the half-full platter of roasted root vegetables, his bushy eyebrows drew together in a sharp line.

"Olivia? Why are you back already? The head table hasn't finished the second rotation," Marco demanded, stepping toward me with a brisk, military stride.

"Mr. Moretti relieved me from floor duty, Marco," I whispered, setting the heavy silver platter onto the preparation counter. My voice cracked slightly from the sheer exhaustion and adrenaline running through my veins. "He told me to come straight back here."

Marco looked at me closely for the first time under the unforgiving glare of the fluorescent kitchen tubes. The illusion of my carefully swept bangs failed completely beneath the direct overhead light. He saw the purple discoloration spreading down past my cheekbone toward my upper lip, the swelling that had pushed my left eye half-shut, and the faint smear of dried blood at the corner of my hairline that I hadn't managed to clean properly.

Marco’s sharp demeanor instantly vanished, replaced by cold, calculated alarm.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, lowering his voice so the line cooks couldn't hear.

"I... I fell, Marco. Like Miss Bellini said. I caught the edge of the door."

Marco’s eyes hardened. He was a veteran of this house; he had served Luca's father before Luca took the throne of the Chicago syndicate. He knew the difference between a blunt-force collision with wood and a calculated, violent strike delivered by human hands.

"Miss Bellini," Marco repeated, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Go downstairs to the staff quarters. Take your coat. Do not leave through the main courtyard. Take the service tunnel out toward the east gate. If the boss relieved you, you stay out of sight until morning."

"Thank you, Marco," I muttered, turning quickly before he could ask anything more that I couldn't answer without signing my own death warrant.

As I descended the narrow concrete stairs leading to the basement lockers, the memory of four o'clock roared back into my mind with crystal clarity.

I had been carrying a basket of freshly laundered Egyptian cotton linens toward the guest suites on the east wing. The east wing was usually completely deserted during the day; it was reserved for visiting capos, out-of-town associates, and seasonal business guests. Because of the engagement dinner, the entire mansion had been crawling with private security details, florists, and catering staff.

The door to Suite 204 had been left ajar by half an inch.

Normally, I would have knocked, announced housekeeping, and waited. But as I approached, I heard hushed, urgent voices speaking in a low, sharp cadence that sounded distinctly Russian, intertwined with the crisp, melodic American tone of Vanessa Bellini.

"...the shipment arrives at the Cicero terminal at three in the morning," Vanessa had whispered. Her voice was stripped of the sweet, submissive charm she always used around Luca. It was cold, ruthless, and filled with venom. "Luca thinks his men have the perimeter secure. They don't. I altered the camera rotation schedules on his private tablet while he was in the shower this morning."

"And the master codes for the vault beneath the docks?" a man’s voice had replied—deep, guttural, with a heavy Slavic accent.

"They're on this drive," Vanessa had said. I had peeked through the sliver of space between the door and the jamb.

I saw her standing by the tall bay window overlooking the rear gardens. She was holding a sleek, black titanium flash drive. Standing in front of her was a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a dark tactical jacket. When he reached out to take the drive from her hand, the late afternoon sun glinted off the heavy silver ring on his pinky finger—the emblem of the eight-pointed star of the Russian Bratva.

The man had pulled Vanessa into his arms. She hadn't resisted. She had tilted her head back, allowing him to press his lips against her throat, laughing softly against his skin.

"Once Moretti falls in Cicero tonight, the Bellini family takes over the North Side, and your people take the ports," Vanessa had murmured. "Just make sure you don't leave him breathing. If Luca survives the ambush, he will burn both our families to ash."

I had gasped. It was barely a sound—a tiny intake of air that would have been lost in any normal room.

But these were professional killers.

The door had been violently ripped open before I could even drop the laundry basket.

The Russian had drawn a silenced pistol in a split second, but Vanessa had shoved his arm down. "No! A gunshot will alert the guards in the courtyard!"

She had grabbed me by the collar of my maid's uniform, dragging me into the room with terrifying strength, throwing me violently against the heavy mahogany console table. My temple had struck the sharp carved edge with a sickening crunch. Stars had exploded behind my eyes, and warm blood had instantly trickled down my cheek.

Vanessa had knelt over me, her manicured fingers digging viciously into my hair, yanking my head back until my neck felt like it would snap.

"Listen to me, you little gutter rat," Vanessa had hissed into my ear, her breath smelling of expensive peppermint and champagne. "You didn't see anything. You didn't hear anything. If you utter one word of this to Luca, or to anyone in this house, I won't just kill you. I will find that sick mother of yours in the hospice center on 5th Street, and I will have her oxygen line cut before you can even dial 911. Do you understand me?"

I had nodded frantically through my tears, trembling violently on the Persian rug.

"Get up, clean your filthy face, put on your makeup, and serve my dinner," Vanessa had sneered, letting go of my hair so violently that my head bounced off the floor. "If you miss one minute of your shift, I'll know you ran to Luca, and your mother dies tonight."

That was why I was here. That was why I had stood at the table, balancing a silver tray with a cracked cheekbone and a bleeding brow, lying straight to the face of the most feared crime boss in the city of Chicago.

Now, standing in the cold basement locker room, I pulled my heavy winter coat over my uniform, my hands shaking so badly that I could barely work the zipper.

I checked my watch.

8:45 PM.

The ambush in Cicero wasn't scheduled until 3:00 AM.

Luca had six hours to live. And if he went down in Cicero tonight, Vanessa would take control, purge every staff member who knew even a fraction of the house's secrets, and my mother and I would be murdered in cold blood anyway.