THE PRICE OF THE GUEST LIST

My own photograph filled the screen.

I was wearing the same gray uniform as Lucy, my hair pulled back into a neat twist. Beneath my face, the text read: Mara. Experienced, discreet. Available for weekend arrangements. Premium rate.

The dining room went completely silent. The only sound was the faint hum of the chandelier above us.

I looked at the phone, then at Sloane. Her face had lost its color. The elegant, commanding woman who had just scolded Lucy for being "sensitive" was suddenly rigid, her eyes darting between Richard Bradford and Nicolo.

"Where did you get this?" Nicolo’s voice was dangerously quiet. It wasn't a yell. It was a low, hollow sound that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"I told you," Bradford said, though his smugness was beginning to crack under Nicolo’s stare. "Sloane sent the portfolio this morning. I paid the retainer for the blonde for tonight. I put down a deposit for the brunette for this weekend."

He pointed a thick finger at me.

I felt sick. My stomach twisted so violently I had to grip the edge of the sideboard. I had worked in this house for six months. I had served their meals, folded their linens, and smiled at their guests. All while Sloane was cataloging us like items on a hidden menu.

"Nicolo, he’s lying," Sloane said. Her voice trembled. She reached for the phone again, but Nicolo slammed his hand down over it. The heavy smack of his palm against the mahogany echoed like a gunshot.

"Don't touch it," Nicolo said.

He didn't look at her. He looked at me. His dark eyes searched my face, looking for any sign of complicity. He was a man who lived in a world of betrayal, and in that split second, I knew he was wondering if I was in on it—if I was using this to extort him.

"I didn't know," I said. My voice was steady, even though my hands were shaking. "Mr. Russo, I swear to God, I have never seen that page in my life."

Nicolo held my gaze for a long moment. Then, he nodded once. He believed me.

"Get out," Nicolo said to Bradford.

"Excuse me?" Bradford scoffed. "I’m a partner in the waterfront development. You can’t just—"

Nicolo stepped around the table. He didn't raise his fists. He didn't need to. He simply stood inches from Bradford's chest. "You are leaving my house. If you ever speak to my staff again, if you ever look at a photograph of them again, the waterfront project will be the least of your concerns. You will not have eyes to see it."

Bradford swallowed hard. He backed away, grabbed his suit jacket from the chair, and hurried out of the dining room without another word.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut.

Sloane took a breath, trying to regain her composure. "Nicolo, darling, please. Let me explain. The legitimate businesses have been bleeding money. Your uncle's debts are catching up to us. I was just trying to leverage our assets to keep the investors happy—"

"Assets?" Nicolo repeated softly. "These are women under my roof. Under my protection."

"They're the help!" Sloane snapped, her desperation turning into venom. "Don't act so high and mighty. You're a Russo! Your family has done far worse to survive."

"I am not my father," Nicolo said. He took off his suit jacket and threw it over a chair. The engagement dinner was officially dead. "We are done, Sloane. Pack your things."

Sloane’s eyes widened. "You can't do that. You need my family's connections."

"I would rather lose everything than run a brothel out of my own home."

Sloane stared at him, realizing he was entirely serious. Her lip curled into a bitter sneer. She snatched her velvet clutch purse off the table. Her hands were shaking with rage. As she yanked the purse toward her, the clasp caught on her bracelet.

The velvet bag popped open.

A silver compact clattered onto the floor. A tube of lipstick rolled under the table. And a piece of folded white paper fluttered down, landing right at my feet.

I looked down.

My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

It wasn't a receipt. It wasn't a ledger.

It was a drawing in blue and red crayon. A stick-figure woman holding hands with a little boy. At the top, in clumsy, wobbly letters, were the words: I love you, Mommy.

It was my six-year-old son’s drawing. Leo’s drawing. The one he had made for me this morning, which I had pinned to our refrigerator before I left for work.

I dropped to my knees and picked it up. My hands were trembling so violently I nearly tore the paper.