THE MAID, THE MOB BOSS, AND THE 22-YEAR SECRET

The silence that followed Sofia’s words was heavy enough to crush bone.

My eyes darted from the twenty-one-year-old girl, back to the photograph, and finally to Marco.

“Your apartment?” I repeated, my voice a dangerous, low rumble. “My men have guarded this club’s perimeter all day. Nobody comes or goes without Marco’s approval. Are you telling me my underboss sent a crew to your home today?”

Marco threw his hands up, his face a mask of desperate panic. “Leo, I swear on my mother’s grave, I didn’t kidnap her! I haven’t been holding her prisoner! You have to listen to me!”

“Then why was my grandfather’s watch in your private safe?” I snarled, slamming my fist onto the mahogany table. The silver serving dishes rattled violently.

Dante leaned back in his chair, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He thought he had won. He thought he had successfully dismantled the hierarchy of my family.

“He’s a traitor, Leo,” Dante goaded. “Shoot him. He kept your woman in a cage for two decades.”

Sofia suddenly lunged forward.

She didn't grab Marco. She didn't grab me.

She grabbed the photograph off the table and shoved it directly into Dante’s face.

“Look at the background, you idiot!” Sofia screamed, her voice breaking with raw, protective fury. “Look at the window behind her!”

Dante flinched, startled by the outburst from a simple waitress. He squinted at the photograph.

“In the reflection of the glass,” Sofia panted, pointing a trembling finger at the glossy paper. “You can see the arm of the person taking the picture.”

I snatched the photo back. I stared at the dark window pane behind Maria’s bound figure.

Sofia was right.

Caught in the flash reflection was a man’s forearm, holding a polaroid camera.

And wrapped around the man’s wrist was a very distinct, custom-made platinum watch with a blue leather strap.

I slowly turned my head.

I looked down at Dante’s left wrist.

Resting perfectly against his pulse point was a custom platinum watch. With a blue leather strap.

The color instantly vanished from Dante’s face. His smug smirk dissolved into sheer, unadulterated terror.

“No,” Dante stammered, pulling his arm behind his back. “No, that’s a coincidence. A lot of guys wear blue leather—”

“I gave you that watch for your thirtieth birthday,” I stated. My voice was no longer angry. It was dead. Hollow. The voice of a man who was looking at a ghost. “There are only three of them in the world, Dante. And I bought all three.”

Answer One, Open Two.

Dante wasn’t the hero exposing a traitor. Dante was the kidnapper. He had orchestrated the entire night. He took the photo, planted the watch in Marco’s safe to frame him, and planned to paralyze me so he could take over the syndicate with me incapacitated and Marco dead.

But why did Dante know Maria was alive? And how had he found her apartment when I had spent millions searching for twenty years?

“You took her,” I said, stepping slowly toward my younger brother.

Dante scrambled backward, his chair tipping over with a loud crash. He hit the floor and scrambled like a cornered rat.

“Stay back, Leo!” Dante shrieked. He reached into his ankle holster and pulled a snub-nosed revolver, aiming it wildly between me and Marco.

“Put the gun down, Dante,” I commanded. “You’re surrounded. You have nowhere to go.”

“I’m not dying tonight!” Dante screamed, his eyes wide and manic. “I did this for the family! You’ve been weak since the day she disappeared! You turned us into legitimate businessmen! We’re a laughingstock!”

“Where is my mother?” Sofia demanded, stepping bravely past my guards, completely ignoring the gun pointed in her direction.

Dante laughed. A sick, hysterical sound.

“She’s right where she belongs,” Dante sneered. “Tied to a chair, waiting for the gasoline.”

My vision went red.

I didn't care about the gun. I didn't care about the danger. I lunged across the fallen chair, my hands reaching for his throat.

But before I could cross the distance, the heavy, reinforced oak doors of the private dining room shuddered violently.

A deafening, concussive BOOM echoed from the hallway outside.

The heavy doors buckled inward, the heavy brass locks snapping like twigs. Dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling. The music in the main club had completely stopped, replaced by the shrieking wail of the fire alarms.

My guards instantly spun around, raising their weapons toward the breached doorway.

Thick, black smoke began to pour into the dining room, crawling across the floor like a living shadow.

“Everyone stay down!” I roared, pulling Sofia behind the heavy mahogany table.

We waited for the gunfire. We waited for a rival crew to pour through the smoke.

But nobody came.

Instead, a heavy, bundled object was thrown through the smoke. It flew across the room and landed directly in the center of the dining table with a wet, heavy thud.

I slowly stood up, my gun drawn, peering through the thickening smoke.

I walked over to the table.

It was a man’s winter coat.

A heavy, dark wool trench coat.

And it was completely, thoroughly soaked in fresh blood.

“Oh my god,” Marco whispered, stepping up beside me, his face pale with horror.

I knew that coat. I had bought it for him.

It belonged to Uncle Vincenzo. The man who had raised me and Dante after our father died. The man who had arranged this private dinner tonight.

Pinned to the lapel of the bloody coat with a long, silver switchblade was a piece of white paper.

I reached out with trembling fingers and pulled the knife loose. I unfolded the note.

The handwriting was jagged, frantic, and unmistakably written in blood.

Your brother didn't act alone. He’s a pawn. Bring the girl to the tunnels, or Maria burns in ten minutes.

I stared at the note, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Answer One, Open Two.

Dante wasn’t the mastermind. He was just a distraction. Someone else—someone far more dangerous and powerful—had killed Uncle Vincenzo, orchestrated the lockdown, and kidnapped Maria.

But why did they want Sofia? What did a twenty-one-year-old waitress have that a criminal mastermind could possibly need?

I turned to look at Dante, demanding answers.

But Dante wasn't pointing his gun at us anymore.

He was staring at the bloody coat of our uncle, his eyes wide with absolute, visceral terror. The arrogance had entirely vanished. He dropped his gun on the floor and fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

“He lied to me,” Dante sobbed, rocking back and forth. “He promised he wouldn't hurt Vincenzo. He promised.”

“Who, Dante?” I grabbed him by the collar, hauling him up to his feet. “Who is doing this?”

Before Dante could answer, the distorted voice from the phone call earlier suddenly crackled to life over the dining room’s hidden intercom speakers.

“Time is up, gentlemen,” the mechanical, chilling voice echoed through the smoke. “The fire is spreading. The doors are sealed from the outside. Bring the girl to the basement, or burn with your empire.”

The intercom clicked off with a sharp hiss of static.

The smoke in the room was growing thicker, burning my eyes and lungs. Panic began to ripple through my guards.

“Leo, we have to move,” Marco coughed, covering his mouth with his handkerchief. “The main exits are blocked by the fire. We’ll be trapped in five minutes.”

I looked at Sofia. She was terrified, trembling, but she hadn’t run. She was standing her ground, waiting for me to make a decision.

“We aren't burning tonight,” I said, my voice cold and absolute. I looked at Marco. “Open the wall.”

Marco’s eyes widened. “Leo, the prohibition tunnels? They haven't been inspected in forty years. They could collapse.”

“Open it,” I ordered.

Marco didn't argue again. He rushed to the massive, built-in wine cellar at the back of the dining room. He reached behind a dusty bottle of 1982 Bordeaux and pulled a hidden iron lever.

With a deep, grinding groan, the heavy wooden shelves swung inward, revealing a dark, damp, stone-lined tunnel plunging beneath the streets of Chicago.

I grabbed Sofia’s hand.

“Stay close to me,” I told her. “I won’t let them hurt you. I swear on my life.”

She looked up at me, the firelight reflecting in her dark eyes.

“I know,” she whispered.

As we stepped into the darkness of the tunnel, a loud, terrifying crash echoed behind us. The ceiling of the dining room had begun to cave in.

But as I looked back one last time, my eyes caught a glimpse of Marco.

He wasn't coughing. He wasn't panicking.

He was looking down at Uncle Vincenzo’s bloody coat with an expression that chilled me to the bone.