“SHE'S NOT GETTING UP TO MAKE A SPEECH! LOOK AT HER HANDS—SHE CAN BARELY HOLD A GLASS!” THE MAFIA BOSS'S FIANCÉE HUMILIATED HIS 25-YEAR-OLD MAID FOR HELPING HIS ELDERLY MOTHER STAND AT THE DINNER TABLE—BUT WHEN TERESA MORETTI GRABBED THE MAID'S ARM AND WHISPERED, “I HAVE TO TELL HIM BEFORE HE MARRIES HER,” LUCA SLOWLY PUT DOWN HIS GLASS.

Trust only the woman who sits with Grandma. Tears pricked my eyes as I read Catherine’s final, desperate instruction to her infant son. She had written it knowing she might not survive, planting a seed of survival that had somehow lasted five years. I looked at the terrified little boy. He had been looking for Teresa. And because he had been watching from the shadows, he knew I was the one who pushed her wheelchair. “I’m Hannah,” I whispered, keeping my voice as soft as possible. “I sit with your grandma. You’re safe now, Matteo.” He hesitated, then lunged forward, wrapping his small, trembling arms around my neck. He buried his face in my uniform, completely silent but shaking with silent sobs. I hugged him tight, shielding him with my body. But before I could stand up, the heavy metal loading dock doors burst open. Heavy boots stomped onto the kitchen tile. “He couldn't have gone far!” a gruff voice barked. “The boss said he slipped out when we popped the trunk! Check the pantries! If Vanessa finds out we lost the kid before the ransom exchange, she’ll have our heads!” My blood turned to ice. They didn't have him. The text message Vanessa received was a lie—her men had sent it to cover their mistake, hoping to find the boy before she realized he was gone. I pulled Matteo tighter against me, pressing us completely flat behind the massive wall of rice bags. There was nowhere to run. The pantry only had one exit. Heavy footsteps entered the pantry. A flashlight beam swept across the ceiling, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. “Look behind the flour!” the gruff voice ordered. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding Matteo so tightly he whimpered softly. The flashlight beam hit the floor, inches from my shoes. “Hey! Stop right there!” The voice didn't come from the hitmen. It came from the kitchen doorway. I peeked through the gap in the rice bags. Vanessa Bellini stood in the kitchen entrance. She had left the bedroom, tired of waiting for Luca to surrender. In her hand, she held a small, silver handgun. The two hitmen froze. “Miss Bellini,” one of the men stammered, lowering his flashlight. “We were just... securing the perimeter.” “Where is the boy?” Vanessa demanded, her voice shrill with impatience. “Luca is stalling. Bring the brat into the dining room right now.” The hitmen exchanged a terrified look. “Ma'am... we had him,” the gruff man admitted, taking a step back. “But when we pulled into the dock, the kid kicked the door open and bolted. He’s in the house somewhere.” Vanessa’s face contorted into a mask of pure, unhinged rage. “You incompetent fools!” she screamed, raising the handgun and aiming it directly at the hitman’s chest. “I built a four-year empire, and you lost my leverage in a driveway?” As Vanessa stepped further into the kitchen to threaten her men, her eyes caught something near the pantry door. The muddy winter coat. Vanessa slowly lowered the gun. She stared at the coat, then looked directly toward the dark gap in the pantry where the rice bags were stacked. A sickening, cruel smile spread across her red lips. “He didn't run far,” Vanessa whispered. She raised the silver handgun and pointed it straight at the gap in the bags. Straight at me. “Step out, Hannah,” Vanessa commanded. “Bring the boy. Or I will shoot right through those bags and kill you both.”