THE WAITRESS, THE WINE, AND THE MAFIA BOSS'S LOST SON

I stared at the photograph in the silver locket, the blood roaring in my ears.

Victoria holding a baby Nicholas.

But Nicholas was twenty-one years old. Victoria was, at most, thirty-five. The math didn't work unless Victoria had been a teenager when this photo was taken.

I looked across the shattered dining room. Victoria was pinned against the wall by two of Dominic's loyal guards, her red silk gown torn, her face a mask of pure terror.

Dominic was sitting on a ruined chair, breathing heavily as the antidote worked through his system. Nicholas stood fiercely by his side.

I walked over to Dominic and handed him the open locket.

"Mr. Caruso," I said softly. "You need to look at this."

Dominic squinted at the tiny photograph. His brow furrowed in deep confusion. "This... this is Nicholas as a baby. But that's Victoria holding him. How is that possible?"

Nicholas leaned over his father's shoulder. He stared at the woman in the picture, and the color drained from his face.

"That's not Victoria," Nicholas said, his voice trembling. "That's my mother."

Dominic looked up at his son, stunned. "Your mother? Elena died when you were three."

"No, Dad," Nicholas said, pointing a shaking finger at Victoria. "The woman who raised me for the last fifteen years. The woman Anthony Romano kept me with. She told me she was my real mother, and that you had given me away because you didn't want me."

The room spun. Victoria wasn't just a vengeful daughter of a rival mob boss.

"She's your mother?" Dominic asked Nicholas, looking at Victoria.

"No," Victoria snapped, her voice shrill. "I'm not his mother, you idiot. Look at the back of the photo."

Dominic popped the small picture out of the silver casing and turned it over.

Written in faded blue ink were two names: Elena and Victoria.

"Elena was my older sister," Victoria said, a bitter, venomous smile twisting her face. "You married my sister, Dominic. You took her away from our family. And when she threatened to leave you because of your life, you had her car run off the road."

"I didn't kill Elena!" Dominic roared, struggling to stand. "It was an accident! The brakes failed!"

"Brakes don't fail on a brand new Mercedes, Dominic!" Victoria screamed back. "Anthony knew the truth. He told me. That's why he helped me take Nicholas after the fire. We wanted you to suffer the way you made me suffer."

Dominic looked completely broken. For fifteen years, he had believed his son burned to death, and his wife died in a tragic accident. Now, he was being told his wife was murdered, and his sister-in-law had stolen his son to avenge her.

But I was looking at Salvatore Caruso.

The seventy-five-year-old patriarch hadn't lowered his gun. But his hands were shaking violently. He wasn't looking at Victoria. He was looking at the unconscious body of Anthony Romano on the floor.

"Mr. Caruso?" I asked Salvatore, taking a step toward him. "Why are your hands shaking?"

Salvatore didn't answer. He just stared at Anthony.

Suddenly, Grace grabbed my arm.

"Mom," she whispered urgently. "The basement. The room they kept me in."

"What about it, Grace?"

"It wasn't a storage room," she said, her eyes wide with fear. "It was an office. There were filing cabinets. And when I was trying to find something to cut the zip ties, I knocked over a box of old tax returns."

"Grace, we don't care about tax returns right now."

"Mom, you don't understand," she insisted, pulling me closer. "The tax returns belonged to Belladonna. This restaurant."

"Okay?"

"The owner listed on the paperwork wasn't Anthony Romano," Grace whispered. "And it wasn't Dominic."

She pointed a shaking finger at Salvatore.

"It was him."

I froze.

Salvatore owned the restaurant.

Which meant Salvatore controlled the security staff.

Which meant Salvatore was the one who hired the guard who let the assassins in tonight.

Before I could speak, the heavy oak doors of the restaurant burst open. Sirens wailed outside, but it wasn't the Chicago police who flooded into the dining room.

It was a dozen men in dark tactical gear, carrying assault rifles.

And leading them was the security guard I had seen taking the envelope of cash in the kitchen.

The guard raised his weapon and aimed it directly at Dominic's chest.

"Put the gun down, Salvatore," the guard ordered. "The old man's time is over."

But Salvatore didn't aim at the guard.