“CUT THAT FILTHY STRING OFF HIS WRIST. HE'S A VALENTI NOW, NOT SOME STREET CHILD.” THE MAFIA BOSS'S FIANCÉE PUT A PAIR OF KITCHEN SCISSORS INTO MY HAND AND ORDERED ME TO REMOVE THE RED BRACELET FROM HIS TEN-YEAR-OLD ADOPTED SON IN FRONT OF TWENTY-FOUR ENGAGEMENT GUESTS—BUT WHEN THE LITTLE BOY BEGGED ME NOT TO CUT IT, I NOTICED THREE TINY KNOTS THAT MADE HIS FATHER'S FACE GO COMPLETELY PALE.

My fingers froze on the cool emerald silk of Vivienne's clutch.

For half a heartbeat, nobody looked at me. All twenty-four guests were watching the dark red stain spreading across the tablecloth in front of Judge Arthur Cross, while Damian remained crouched beside Noah, still holding his dead brother's pocket watch next to the boy's wrist.

I glanced at the clear plastic sleeve inside Vivienne's bag.

A small, rough-carved wooden bead. Scratched into the grain with something sharp—like a pocketknife or a compass point—was a crooked capital N.

Noah's bead had a Z for Zoe.

This one had an N for Noah.

Which meant the matching bracelet—the one Noah's six-year-old sister had been wearing when they were separated two years ago—was sitting inside Vivienne Cross's evening bag right now.

Before I could breathe, Vivienne's manicured hand shot down and snatched the clutch out of my grasp.

The metal clasp snapped shut like a trap.

"Don't touch my personal things, Natalie," she said, her voice dropping an octave so only I could hear. "Go to the kitchen and get club soda for my father's sleeve. Now."

I looked straight into her pale blue eyes.

She knew I had seen it.

The polite society mask was gone. In its place was a cold, cornered calculation that sent a chill straight down my spine.

"Natalie?" Damian stood up from Noah's chair, his tall frame casting a shadow across the table. "Did you hear her? Or is there something else you need to say?"

My throat went dry.

If I accused Vivienne right now, without proof in my hand, she would open that clutch three minutes later in the powder room after flushing the bead down the toilet, and I would look like a vindictive maid trying to ruin her employer's engagement after being scolded.

And if I got fired tonight, Noah would be left alone in this house with a woman who had his missing sister's bracelet in her purse.

"Nothing, Mr. Valenti," I said quietly. "I'll get fresh linens right away."

As I turned toward the swinging doors of the butler's pantry, I felt Noah's small fingers brush the hem of my white apron.

"Stay close, Miss Natalie," he whispered.

"I'm right in the kitchen, Noah. I'm not leaving the house."

I pushed through the heavy oak door into the warm, brightly lit kitchen. The head chef, Enzo, was plating braised short ribs with two sous-chefs. None of them looked up as I grabbed a stack of linen napkins and a bottle of soda water from the pantry shelf.

My mind was racing.

For two years, Damian had paid top private investigators in Illinois to locate Zoe. They had checked every state foster registry, every private adoption agency, every elementary school enrollment under three different spellings of her name.

Every single lead had vanished into thin air.

How could a millionaire with connections in every courthouse and police precinct in Chicago fail to find one little girl—while his fiancée had the child's wooden bead in her handbag?

Wait.

Connections in every courthouse.

I stopped with my hand on the pantry counter.

Vivienne's father was Arthur Cross. Before he retired last year, he had spent nineteen years as a supervising judge in the Cook County Juvenile and Family Court division.

Every sealed adoption file in the county had crossed his bench or his clerk's office.

The pantry door swung open behind me.

I spun around, clutching the club soda to my chest.

It wasn't a butler. It was Vivienne.

She let the heavy oak door swing shut, cutting off the murmur of the dining room. From the far end of the kitchen, Chef Enzo glanced over, saw the boss's fiancée, and immediately signaled his two assistants to step into the walk-in cooler to check inventory.

We were alone under the humming fluorescent lights.

Vivienne didn't shout. She walked calmly to the stainless-steel prep island and rested her fingertips on the cold metal.

"Your sister goes to Wright College on the northwest side, doesn't she, Natalie?"

My blood turned to ice. "Leave Chloe out of this."

"Respiratory therapy program," Vivienne continued, her tone conversational. "Eighteen hundred dollars a semester, plus clinical lab fees. You pay it in three installments because your parents passed away four years ago and she doesn't qualify for the state grant."

"How do you know that?"

"I vet everyone who works in my future home," she said smoothly. "Which is why I know you're smart enough not to ruin your sister's life over something you don't understand."

"I saw the bead in your purse, Miss Cross. It has an N on it. That's Zoe's bracelet."

For the first time, a flicker of genuine exhaustion crossed Vivienne's face. It surprised me. She didn't look gleeful; she looked like a woman carrying a crate of nitroglycerin down a steep flight of stairs.

"You think I kidnapped a little girl?" Vivienne asked quietly. "Don't be ridiculous, Natalie. I didn't take Noah's sister. I'm trying to keep Damian from finding out who she really belongs to."

I blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Did you see Damian's face when he looked at those knots?" she asked, stepping closer. "That fisherman's knot wasn't a coincidence. My father recognized the shelter Noah just mentioned—St. Jude's by the harbor. And if Damian digs into why those two children were left there, this engagement won't be the only thing that blows apart. People will die, Natalie. Starting with my father."

She reached into her bodice, pulled out a folded white envelope, and laid it on the steel counter between us.

"There is five thousand dollars in cash inside this," she said. "Enough for Chloe's next two semesters. Take off your apron, walk out the service entrance right now, and never speak to Damian or Noah again."

I looked at the thick white envelope, then back at her cold blue eyes.

"And if I don't?"

"Then in ten minutes, security will search your locker downstairs and find my grandmother's sapphire brooch in your coat pocket," Vivienne said softly. "You won't just lose your job. You'll be in a county holding cell before midnight."

Before I could answer, the kitchen intercom buzzed—Wait, no, the heavy oak door leading to the dining room didn't buzz. It was pushed open six inches.

Noah stood in the gap.