THE STOLEN COMPASS AND THE CARTEL’S HEIR

The ballroom was so quiet I could hear the rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The elderly woman stood at the edge of the service elevator, her chest heaving beneath a heavy black velvet coat. She leaned her weight onto a silver-handled cane, her eyes locked on me with a mixture of absolute terror and venomous hatred.

Dominic’s gun didn’t waver. His broad shoulders shielded both Leo and me from the rest of the room.

“Put the gun down, Dominic,” the old woman snapped, though her voice trembled. “Are you going to shoot your own mother in front of half the city?”

“If you take another step toward my son, Beatrice, I will,” Dominic replied. His voice was a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated in the tight space between us. “What are you doing here? You were banished to the estate in Sicily.”

“I came because I heard rumors,” Beatrice spat, her knuckles turning white on the silver cane. “Rumors that my foolish son was tearing the city apart looking for a ghost. And now I see it’s worse. You’ve hired an actress.”

She pointed a trembling, ring-covered finger at me.

“That woman is not Clara,” Beatrice declared loudly, ensuring the wealthy guests cowering behind overturned tables heard every word. “Clara Varelli burned in that car three years ago. I identified the ashes myself. This is a scam. A con artist looking to steal the Varelli fortune.”

My hands were shaking so hard the champagne bottle I had been holding clattered against a nearby table.

“I don’t want your money,” I said, my voice cracking. “I don’t even know who Clara is. I’m a caterer. I was hired for this shift yesterday.”

“Liar!” Beatrice shrieked. She struck the marble floor with her silver cane. The sharp crack echoed like a gunshot.

Leo buried his face against my apron, his tiny hands gripping the fabric of my skirt. “Make the mean lady go away,” he whispered into my leg.

The weight of the child clinging to me sent a strange, powerful electrical shock straight through my chest. I didn’t know this boy. I had no memory of him. Yet, every instinct in my body was screaming at me to drop to my knees, wrap my arms around him, and protect him with my life.

Dominic kept his gun trained on his mother, but his gray eyes—the exact same shade as Leo’s—flicked to me.

“Let me see the pendant again,” Dominic ordered softly.

I reached to my chest with trembling fingers. The gold compass pendant was heavy, still warm from my skin. I held it out.

Dominic stared at the tiny key hidden inside the opened compartment. He stared at the initials. D.V.

“I gave this to Clara on our wedding day,” Dominic whispered, the lethal mafia boss suddenly sounding like a broken man. “The key opens a safety deposit box at the First National. A box only she and I knew about.”

“It’s a forgery!” Beatrice argued, stepping closer. Two of her own armed bodyguards stepped out of the elevator behind her, their hands hovering over their holsters.

Dominic’s men immediately raised their weapons. A dozen guns were suddenly drawn in the center of the ballroom.

“Stand down,” Dominic commanded the room, though his eyes never left his mother. “Beatrice, you said this boy isn’t my son. Explain yourself. Now.”

Beatrice let out a cruel, breathless laugh. She reached into the deep pocket of her velvet coat.

Instantly, Dominic’s men braced for a weapon.

Instead, she pulled out a folded piece of heavy parchment paper.

“You were so blinded by grief when Clara died,” Beatrice sneered, waving the paper in the air. “You refused to believe the child she left behind was yours. You demanded a DNA test. But you were too drunk to read the results yourself. You had me read them.”

Dominic’s jaw tightened. “The test proved he was my blood.”

“The test I showed you was a forgery,” Beatrice said, her smile twisting into something ugly. “I bought this boy from an orphanage in Romania. I paid off the doctors to alter the records. Clara couldn’t have children, Dominic. She was barren. This child is a street rat I bought to keep the commission from stripping you of your title because you lacked an heir.”

The room gasped.

I looked down at Leo. His bottom lip was trembling, tears spilling over his dark eyelashes.

“Daddy?” Leo whimpered.

“Don’t listen to her, Leo,” Dominic said instantly, his voice fierce and unyielding. “You are my son. Blood or not. You are mine.”

But my eyes were glued to the piece of paper in Beatrice’s hand.

She threw it onto the floor in disgust. “Read it yourself, Dominic. The real medical report. It proves he shares no DNA with you. Or with that dead woman you married.”

The paper fluttered to the marble floor, landing right near the toe of my black catering shoe.

I didn’t want to look. I wanted to run out the back doors and disappear into the rainy Boston night.

But as I looked down, my breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t the DNA results that made the room spin. It was the letterhead.

The bright blue logo at the top of the page belonged to St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital.

That was the hospital I had woken up in three years ago. The place where I was told I had survived a horrific crash, but lost every memory of my life before the age of twenty-six.

And at the bottom of the page, signed in black ink, was a name I knew intimately.

Dr. Elias Vance.

The doctor who had held my hand when I woke up. The doctor who told me my name was Hannah Cole.

“Where did you get this?” I gasped, falling to my knees to snatch the paper from the floor.

Beatrice looked at me with pure disgust. “From the doctor who delivered the street rat, you idiot.”

“No,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “This is the doctor who treated my amnesia. He told me I had no family.”

Dominic froze. He slowly lowered his weapon, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying intensity.

“Let me see that paper,” Dominic demanded.

I handed it up to him. My hands were shaking so violently the paper rattled.

Dominic scanned the document. His face went entirely pale.

“Hannah,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “What date did your car accident happen?”

“October 14th,” I replied automatically. It was the only date I was sure of.

Dominic turned the paper around so I could see it.

The DNA test—signed by the man who supposedly saved my life—was dated October 13th. Exactly one day before my accident.

“This wasn’t an accident,” Dominic breathed, the realization dawning on him with terrifying clarity. He looked at Beatrice, his eyes burning with a rage that made the temperature in the room plummet. “You didn’t just fake a DNA test, Mother. You tried to murder my wife.”

Before Beatrice could respond, the ballroom doors violently burst open.

Three men in tactical gear stepped through, raising automatic weapons.