THE SINS OF THE FATHERS

The dial tone echoed in the silent apartment.

Richard had my adoptive mother.

A woman who had lied to me, who had taken Mafia money to raise me—but the only mother I had ever known. She had brushed my hair, held my hand through fevers, and worked double shifts as a cashier to buy my school clothes.

I didn’t care about the money. I cared about her.

“We have to go to Mount Sinai,” I said, turning toward the door.

“No,” Salvatore commanded, striking his cane against the floor. “It’s a trap. Richard wants you dead. You are the true heir. As long as you breathe, his claim is contested.”

“His claim?” Gabriel asked, standing up. “Richard is a manager at a restaurant.”

Answer One.

“Richard is Paul Mercer’s son,” Salvatore corrected grimly. “Paul was married to my cousin. In the old country, blood logic dictates that if my direct line falls, the cousin’s line inherits. Richard doesn’t just want my business. He wants my seat on the Commission.”

Gabriel looked at me. Then he looked at his adoptive father.

“Tessa’s mother is in that hospital,” Gabriel said, his voice finding its cold, commanding edge again. “We protect what is ours.”

Salvatore sneered. “She isn’t yours to protect anymore, Gabriel. You aren’t family.”

Gabriel went perfectly still.

The betrayal hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Then Gabriel reached into his jacket. He didn’t pull out his gun.

He pulled out the heavy silver pocket watch. He tossed it onto the coffee table.

“You’re right,” Gabriel said quietly. “I’m not a Rossi. But Tessa didn’t ask for this war. And I’m going to make sure she survives it.”

We left Salvatore with the wounded woman and took the SUV.

The drive to Manhattan was tense.

We slipped into Mount Sinai through the underground delivery bays. Gabriel moved with lethal precision, disabling a camera and guiding us up the service stairwell to the cardiac ward.

Room 412.

The door was ajar.

I pushed it open, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The room was empty of threats. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor confirmed Maria was still alive, sleeping deeply under heavy sedation.

But Richard wasn't there.

Instead, resting perfectly centered on her thin hospital blanket, was a faded Polaroid photograph.

I picked it up.

Gabriel stepped beside me, his eyes scanning the dark hallway outside.

I looked at the picture.

It was a photograph of a younger Paul Mercer—Richard’s father. He was standing in a rain-slicked alleyway, smoking a cigarette.

But it was what lay at Paul’s feet that made the blood drain from my face.

Two bodies. A man and a woman, shot execution-style.

And in Paul Mercer’s arm, wrapped in a blood-spattered blanket, was a newborn baby.

I turned the photograph over.

Written on the back in neat, blue ink was a single sentence:

The price of a prince.

I handed the photo to Gabriel.

He stared at the bodies. He recognized the alley. But more importantly, he recognized the faces of the dead. He had seen them in old neighborhood files.

Open Two. Why did Paul Mercer kill Gabriel’s real parents?

Gabriel’s breathing turned ragged. He backed away from the bed, his eyes wide with a horrifying realization.

“Paul Mercer was Salvatore’s top hitman,” Gabriel whispered.

He looked up at me, his face contorted in absolute agony.

“Salvatore ordered the hit on my parents,” Gabriel said, his voice breaking. “He orphaned me, just so he could steal a son.”

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Gabriel didn’t aim his gun at the door.