THE MAID, THE WIDOW, AND THE MAFIA BOSS'S SECRET

“Harrison,” Dominic said. His voice wasn’t angry. It was deadly quiet. “You set us up.”

The attorney stood in the pouring rain, looking pathetic and desperate. The three armed thugs flanked him, their weapons raised.

“I had no choice,” Harrison yelled over the sound of the rain. “Marcus found out I was skimming from both families! The Morettis and the Romanos! He said if I didn't get him Thomas’s ledger tonight, he would kill my daughters.”

“So you staged getting shot at the mansion to buy time,” Dominic stated, stepping slightly in front of me, shielding my body with his own.

“Just give me the ledger pages, Dominic,” Harrison pleaded, the gun shaking in his hand. “Let me walk away. You have enough money. Let me save my family!”

“You stole from widows, Harrison,” Dominic said coldly. “You stole from men who bled for my father. You don't get to walk away.”

“Shoot him!” Harrison screamed to the thugs.

But before a single trigger could be pulled, the sound of a roaring engine drowned out the rain.

A massive, armored black Escalade—one of Dominic’s personal security vehicles—slammed violently into the side of Harrison’s van.

Metal crunched. Glass shattered. The thugs were knocked off their feet, scrambling in the wet street.

Two of Dominic’s heavily armed guards poured out of the Escalade, weapons drawn.

“Drop them!” the lead guard roared.

The thugs, realizing they were outmatched, immediately dropped their guns and raised their hands. Harrison stood frozen, staring in horror at his ruined escape plan.

Dominic didn’t hesitate. He marched out of the charity shop, grabbed Harrison by the collar of his wet suit, and slammed him against the brick wall.

The attorney dropped his gun, whimpering in pain as his wounded shoulder hit the brick.

“Who else knows about Locker 402?” Dominic demanded, his forearm pressed against Harrison’s throat.

“N-no one!” Harrison choked out. “Only me! I swear!”

“Take him to the warehouse,” Dominic barked at his guards, tossing the attorney to the ground. “And clean this mess up.”

Dominic grabbed my arm and pulled me back toward our SUV.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning my face for injuries as we climbed inside.

“I’m fine,” I breathed, though my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the rolled-up ledger pages. “Dominic, if Harrison stole the money, why did Victoria sign that transfer document?”

Dominic started the engine and peeled away from the curb. “Because Harrison tricked her. He probably told Victoria the transfer was to protect the money from an audit. He used her signature to move the funds to his offshore account, knowing that if it was discovered, she would take the fall. He played us all.”

I looked down at the ledger pages. Thomas Walsh had figured it all out. He had traced the money right past the mafia families, straight to the man who was supposed to be upholding the law.

“We have the proof now,” I said. “We can clear Thomas’s name. We can get the widows their money back.”

“Not yet,” Dominic said, steering the car toward downtown. “Harrison was the thief. But Harrison didn’t order the hit on your parents seventeen years ago. He didn’t have the power to do that. The secret in Locker 402… that’s the real threat. That’s why your father died.”

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to Chicago Union Station.

The massive transit hub was largely empty at 2:00 AM, echoing with the sound of a floor buffer in the distance. We walked briskly through the grand hall, our footsteps echoing off the marble floors.

I clutched the tiny silver claim ticket in my palm. The metal felt warm against my skin.

“Locker 402,” Dominic read, scanning the rows of ancient, brass-faced storage lockers near the south terminal.

We found it in the bottom row. It was covered in a thick layer of grime, looking as though it hadn't been touched in two decades.

My hands trembled as I knelt down. I slid the small, grooved key from the locket into the lock.

It clicked.

I pulled the heavy brass door open.

Inside the small, dark space sat a single object.

It wasn't a briefcase of cash. It wasn't a file folder.

It was a faded, leather-bound diary.

I pulled it out gently. The leather was cracking with age. My father’s initials, R.B., were stamped in gold on the bottom corner.

“Open it,” Dominic urged quietly, kneeling beside me.

I opened the book to the first bookmarked page. My father’s neat, blocky handwriting filled the paper.

October 14th, 2009.I have found the discrepancy in the Romano accounts. The extortion payments to the Moretti family aren’t for a business dispute. Romano is being blackmailed. He is paying them to keep quiet about a child.

My breath hitched. “A child?”

I turned the page.

Victoria Moretti gave birth to a boy in secret. The father is not her deceased husband. The father is Dominic Romano. The Morettis have threatened to kill the child if Romano doesn’t pay them millions.

Dominic grabbed the book from my hands, his eyes flying across the page. His face drained of all color.

“A child,” Dominic whispered. “Victoria and I… before I was officially initiated into the family, we had a brief affair. When she got married to someone else, she told me she had a miscarriage.”

“She lied,” I said, the pieces rapidly falling into place. “She had the baby. And her father used the child to blackmail your father.”

Dominic stared at the page, his chest heaving. “My father paid them to keep my son alive. He never told me.”

“Dominic,” I whispered, a sudden, terrifying realization dawning on me.

I thought about Leo. Seven years old. An orphan. Victoria’s "step-nephew" whom she hated but kept close to control his massive trust fund.

“Leo,” I breathed. “Dominic… Leo isn't her nephew.”

Dominic looked up at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock, awe, and horror.

“He’s my son,” Dominic said.

Before either of us could say another word, my phone buzzed violently in my pocket.

It was a text message. From an unknown number.

I opened it.

It was a picture of Leo. He was tied to a chair in the mansion’s library, crying. Standing behind him, holding a lighter near the drapes, was Victoria’s brother, Marcus.