THE MAFIA BOSS LOCKED THE DOORS AT HIS OWN ANNIVERSARY DINNER—BUT THE MAID AND THE 81-YEAR-OLD WIDOW WERE ABOUT TO EXPOSE A DEADLY FAMILY SECRET.

The hallway was spinning. The heavy scent of cedar from the open closet made me feel nauseous.

I stared at the tarnished silver rosary in my trembling hands, my vision blurring with tears. The intricate crucifix, missing a tiny piece of silver on the left arm—it was unmistakable. It was the exact rosary my mother had held every night before she went to sleep.

My mother, Sarah Collins, had been a maid for the Moretti family when I was a teenager. Ten years ago, the police told me she was walking home from the estate late at night when a drunk driver struck her and fled the scene. They never found the driver. Her death had broken my heart, but I had always believed it was a tragic, senseless accident.

But her rosary was here. Hidden in the pocket of a murdered housekeeper’s blood-stained wool coat, shoved in the back of the Moretti family’s private closet.

“Miss Anna?” Leo whispered, his little face etched with pure terror as he watched me sob. He reached out with his tiny hands and wiped a tear from my cheek.

His touch snapped me back to reality.

I couldn't fall apart. Not now. I was in a house filled with killers, and I was the only person standing between this innocent little boy and the monsters his family had become.

“I’m okay, Leo,” I choked out, forcing a brave, trembling smile for his sake. I quickly shoved the silver rosary deep into my apron pocket. “I just… I found something that made me sad. Come on. Let’s get you to your room.”

I stood up on shaky legs, zipped the plastic garment bag back over the bloody wool coat, and shoved it back into the dark corner of the closet. I grabbed Leo’s hand and hurried him down the hall, locking us inside his massive, toy-filled bedroom.

I tucked him into his bed, pulling the thick duvet up to his chin.

“Are the bad people gone yet?” Leo asked, clutching his stuffed bear tight against his chest.

“Your daddy is taking care of them,” I promised, stroking his dark hair until his eyes grew heavy. “You just close your eyes. I’ll sit right here by the door.”

It took ten agonizing minutes for Leo’s breathing to slow into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Once he was out, I stood up and paced the room, my mind racing with terrifying connections.

Ten years ago, Vincent’s father, Carlo Moretti, was killed by a car bomb. The Russian syndicate was blamed. The same year, my mother was killed in a hit-and-run.

Eight months ago, Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper, was abruptly "fired" and disappeared.

Eight months ago, someone dug up Carlo Moretti’s grave, stole his pocket watch, and used it to blackmail Uncle Raymond into authorizing the theft of the elderly servants' pension funds.

And tonight, Victoria had a one-way ticket out of the city, while Michael had a surveillance photo of her meeting with the Russians.

Mrs. Higgins’ coat was in the background of that photo.

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

Mrs. Higgins hadn't been an innocent bystander. She had been following Victoria. Mrs. Higgins had been a loyal servant to Carlo Moretti for twenty years. She must have suspected Victoria was up to something, followed her to the diner, and witnessed the meeting with the Russian boss.

And someone had killed Mrs. Higgins for it. But why did she have my mother’s rosary in her pocket?

Suddenly, a heavy knock echoed against the bedroom door.

I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat.

“Anna,” Vincent’s deep voice called from the hallway. “Open the door.”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, my hand instinctively dropping to the pocket of my apron where the rosary was hidden. Slowly, I turned the lock and opened the door.

Vincent stood in the dimly lit hallway. He had taken off his suit jacket, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. He looked utterly exhausted, like a man who had aged ten years in the last hour.

There was no blood on him, but the terrifyingly calm aura around him told me the interrogation downstairs had been brutal.

“Is he asleep?” Vincent asked quietly, looking past me at Leo’s sleeping form.

“Yes, sir,” I whispered, stepping out into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind me so we wouldn't wake him. “Is Dorothy safe?”

“I had my most trusted men drive Dorothy home,” Vincent assured me, running a hand through his dark hair. “She will have a guard at her door 24/7. Her pension will be fully restored tomorrow morning, along with the other seven employees. You protected her tonight, Anna. You did a brave thing.”

“What happened to Victoria and Michael?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

Vincent’s jaw tightened. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by cold steel.

“Victoria is currently tied to a chair in the basement,” Vincent said without an ounce of emotion. “She confessed. She was selling our shipping routes to the Russians. She needed the pension money to pay a bribe to a dock master who was going to look the other way while the Russians smuggled weapons through our ports.”

I gasped. “And Michael?”

“Michael found out she was a rat eight months ago,” Vincent continued, his voice dripping with disgust. “But instead of coming to me, my brother decided to blackmail her. He took the surveillance photos. He demanded a cut of the money she was stealing. They’ve been draining the pension fund together.”

“So they both forged your father’s signature?”

Vincent shook his head, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “No. That’s the problem, Anna. They both swear they didn't forge the signature. They both swear they didn't dig up my father’s grave to get the pocket watch. They were just using the authorizations that mysteriously appeared on Raymond’s desk.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding.

If Victoria and Michael were just opportunists, who was the mastermind? Who was the one actually pulling the strings, terrified enough to dig up a mafia boss's grave?

I couldn't hold it in anymore. I reached into my apron pocket.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “I need to show you something. I found it in the guest coat closet down the hall.”

I pulled out the tarnished silver rosary and held it up.

Vincent looked at it. His brow furrowed in confusion. “A rosary? Whose is it?”

“It belonged to my mother, Sarah Collins,” I said, a tear slipping down my cheek. “She was killed in a hit-and-run ten years ago. The same year your father died.”

Vincent’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. “I remember your mother. She was a good woman. But why is her rosary in my coat closet?”

“Because it was inside the pocket of Mrs. Higgins’ wool coat,” I choked out, unable to stop crying. “And Mr. Moretti… the coat is covered in blood.”

Vincent went perfectly still. The air in the hallway seemed to freeze.

Without a word, he turned and marched down the hall toward the cedar closet. He ripped the heavy doors open, tearing through the plastic garment bags until he found the dark green wool coat.

He pulled it out, staring at the massive, dried bloodstain on the hem.

“Mrs. Higgins,” Vincent whispered, horrifying realization dawning on his face. “She didn't quit and move to Florida. She was murdered in this house.”

“I think she was following Victoria,” I said, stepping up behind him. “I think she saw the meeting with the Russians. But I don't understand why she had my mother’s rosary. My mother died ten years ago.”

Vincent slowly turned around to face me. He looked at the tarnished silver crucifix in my hand.

“Answer one,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a dark, terrifying register. “Mrs. Higgins was murdered because she found out the truth about the pension theft.”

He reached out and gently took the rosary from my trembling hand.

“Open two,” Vincent said, his eyes burning with a sudden, devastating clarity. “Your mother’s death wasn't a hit-and-run, Anna. She was murdered, too. And I think I know who killed them both.”

Vincent reached his fingers into the delicate silver workings of the crucifix. He pressed hard on the back of the cross.