THE NIGHT I WOKE A SLEEPING EMPIRE

The basement suddenly felt as small as a coffin.

I stared at the handwriting on the back of the ticket stub. The ink was fresh, no more than a few days old. The letters were sharp, elegant, slanted. I had seen that exact handwriting hours ago, when Vincent signed a delivery invoice at the restaurant.

Salvatore didn't kill your mother. I did. — Vincent.

The air in my lungs turned to ash. I looked at the little girl cowering behind me, then slowly turned my head toward the cot.

Vincent was pushing himself up, the gun still in his hand, his eyes locked on Lorenzo, who was groaning on the floor. Vincent hadn't seen the ticket. He hadn't seen the confession handed to me by an eight-year-old girl.

"Tie him up," Vincent said, his voice ragged with pain but commanding. "Use the electrical wire from the bakery ovens."

My mind was screaming. Every instinct Nona Katarina had drilled into me was at war with the man I had trusted just minutes ago. The man who had protected me. The man who was bleeding for me.

Did he murder my mother? Was this entire night a setup?

I slipped the ticket into my apron pocket. My face remained a mask of stone. "Keep your gun on him," I told Vincent, my voice devoid of emotion.

I walked over to Lorenzo, securing his wrists to a heavy cast-iron pipe with thick copper wire. Lorenzo laughed, coughing up a speck of blood.

"You think you've won?" Lorenzo sneered at me. "You think this pretty boy loves you? He's a Russo. He's playing you, you stupid cow."

I tightened the wire until it dug into his wrists. Lorenzo hissed in pain.

"Shut up," I said quietly. I leaned in so only Lorenzo could hear me. "Who gave her the ticket?"

Lorenzo’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, then narrowed into a cruel smile. "The truth hurts, doesn't it, sweetheart? Your precious Vincent isn't a savior. He's a cleaner. He cleaned up your mother, and he was supposed to clean up the brat. But he got soft."

I stood up, my back to Vincent. My chest heaved. I looked at my hands—the hands that had served pasta, scrubbed floors, and tonight, broken bones.

"Claret," Vincent called out. "Are you okay? You look pale."

I turned to him. I had to play this perfectly. If he was the killer, he still had the gun. And I had a little girl to protect.

"I'm fine," I lied. I walked over to Sofia, scooped her up into my arms. She buried her face in my neck, crying silently. She felt so small, so fragile. I felt fiercely, violently protective of her.

"We need to leave," I told Vincent. "Lorenzo’s men will be looking for him. If we stay here, we're dead."

"Where do we go?" Vincent asked, struggling to stand.

"The safe deposit box," I said. "The key Nona left. It's the only thing that will give us leverage against Salvatore."

"I'll drive," Vincent said, limping toward the stairs.

"No," I stopped him. "I'm driving."

Twenty minutes later, we were in a stolen sedan moving through the quiet, pre-dawn streets of Chicago. Sofia was asleep in the backseat, exhausted from the trauma. Vincent sat in the passenger seat, sweating, his hand pressing a fresh towel to his side.

"You're quiet," Vincent observed, watching my face illuminated by the passing streetlights.

"I'm thinking," I said coldly.

"About what?"

"About how a man who claims to hate his father still manages to do all his dirty work." I kept my eyes on the road. "Tell me about my mother, Vincent."

The silence in the car became deafening.

Vincent stiffened. "What?"

"My mother," I repeated, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. "She didn't die in an accident. You told me Salvatore tracked her down eight years ago. But you were the one who pulled the trigger, weren't you?"

Vincent’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes, his head falling back against the headrest. He didn't deny it.

"Pull over," he whispered.

"No."

"Claret, pull the damn car over!" he shouted.

I slammed on the brakes, pulling into an empty alleyway. I threw the car into park and turned to him, furious, tears finally spilling hot and fast down my cheeks.

"Give me the gun," I demanded, holding out my hand.

Vincent looked at me, his face twisted in agony. Slowly, he unclipped the holster and handed me the weapon. I checked the safety and pointed it squarely at his chest.

"Explain," I choked out. "Before I put a bullet in you."

Vincent didn't look at the gun. He looked into my eyes.

"I was nineteen," he said, his voice breaking. "My father sent me to silence a woman who was threatening to expose his extortion rackets. I didn't know who she was. I didn't know she was a Vela. I just knew if I didn't do it, my father would kill my little sister."

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"I went to the house," Vincent continued, tears shining in his eyes. "I had my gun drawn. But when I got there... she was already bleeding out on the floor. Beatrice had gotten there first. Beatrice shot her."

I lowered the gun a fraction of an inch.

"Your mother pulled me down," Vincent whispered, a sob escaping his throat. "She handed me a baby. Sofia. She begged me to hide her. She knew my father would kill the child."

"So you wrote the note?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I wrote it to your grandmother, Katarina. I gave her the baby. I told her I killed your mother so my father would stop looking for the killer, so Beatrice would take the credit, and so Katarina would know the baby was safe." He looked at me, completely broken. "I've hated myself every day since. I've spent eight years trying to dismantle my father's empire from the inside to atone for what I couldn't stop."

I stared at him, the truth ringing in his exhausted, bleeding confession.

Before I could speak, my cell phone—still in my apron pocket—began to ring.

I pulled it out. Unknown number.

I answered it.

"Claret," Beatrice’s cold, mocking voice echoed through the speaker. "Bring me the iron key. Or the police will find a dead baby in the trunk of your stolen car. Look in the backseat, darling."

I whipped my head around.