THE MAFIA BOSS HEARD VANESSA CLAIM THE MIRROR WAS FOR PHOTOGRAPHS EVEN THOUGH LUCA HAD NEVER REQUESTED IT

“Higher, Claire.”

Vanessa Bellini pointed toward the enormous mirror.

“Luca wants the entire table reflected.”

I almost laughed.

Luca had never asked for this.

The mirror towered over me like a wall.

Nearly five times my body size.

Its antique gold frame was thick enough that I could barely wrap my fingers around the lower edge.

Vanessa had refused to let the movers stay.

So I was supporting one side almost entirely by myself.

My name is Claire Dawson.

I was twenty-nine and had worked at Luca Moretti’s Chicago mansion for eleven months.

Tonight, my black maid uniform looked worse than it ever had.

The skirt was torn near one knee.

Both sleeves were ripped.

Several long superficial cuts crossed my palms, wrists and forearms.

More shallow cuts marked both calves beneath torn stockings.

Blood had stained my white cuffs.

My left cheek was dark purple.

My lower lip was split.

And every time I shifted the mirror—

another line of pain ran through my arms and legs.

“Mrs. Bellini,” I whispered, “I can’t hold this much longer.”

Vanessa lifted her champagne.

“You’ll hold it until the photographer finishes.”

The mirror tilted.

I gasped.

Then a chair scraped back.

“Put it down.”

Luca Moretti stood from the head of the table.

Forty.

White Italian-American.

Six-foot-four.

Broad-shouldered.

Powerfully built beneath a tailored black three-piece suit.

Dense black-and-gray tattoos covered his fingers, knuckles, hands, forearms, throat and both sides of his neck.

His thick jet-black hair reached the base of his neck and was divided in a clean 60:40 part, the heavier side swept backward.

Never bald.

Never shaved.

A short neat beard sharpened his already hard face.

He crossed the room and caught the gold frame before it crushed me beneath its weight.

“Claire.”

“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“What happened to your arms?”

Before I could answer—

Vanessa laughed.

“She cut herself in the conservatory.”

Luca slowly looked toward her.

“The conservatory?”

“Yes.”

“She broke a planter.”

My stomach dropped.

I had not been in the conservatory all day.

Luca looked at me.

“Did you break a planter?”

Vanessa’s eyes were on me.

Cold.

Threatening.

Full of murderous malice.

“Yes, sir,” I lied softly, my vocal cords trembling.

“What kind?” Luca asked.

I hesitated.

Vanessa answered immediately:

“The large ceramic one beside the east windows.”

Luca’s expression changed.

The lines on his forehead deepened into stone.

“That planter was removed yesterday.”

Vanessa stopped smiling.

The crystal glass in her hand trembled ever so slightly.

Then Luca noticed blood running beneath the torn fabric around my calf.

“And your legs?”

Vanessa immediately said:

“She fell on the broken pieces.”

Luca looked at her again.

“You seem to know everything about an accident you didn’t witness.”

Silence.

The ten men seated at the long dining table—capos, lieutenants, business partners—went deathly still.

No one breathed.

When Luca Moretti’s voice dropped an octave, men usually died.

He turned back to me.

“Why are you holding this mirror?”

“Mrs. Bellini told me to.”

Vanessa interjected sharply:

“For the photographs! Luca, you said you wanted the family portrait to capture the chandelier’s depth!”

Luca ignored her completely.

He stared at the enormous gold frame.

Then at the fresh scratches across the back of the heavy gilded wood.

One section had recently been unscrewed.

The raw wood fibers were pale and exposed under the bright hall chandeliers.

He reached behind it.

His large, tattooed hand slid into the groove.

Something clicked.

A tiny black transmitter fell into his tattooed palm.

A high-frequency military wiretap.

Its microscopic red LED was still pulsing faintly, transmitting live audio across encrypted frequencies.

Vanessa’s face lost all color.

The flush from her vintage champagne drained in a single heartbeat.

Luca looked at the device.

He turned it over between his thumb and forefinger.

Then at me.

“Is this what you found?”

My eyes filled with burning tears.

“Yes, sir.”

“She hurt me when I tried to remove it.”

Luca slowly raised his eyes toward his fiancée.

And suddenly nobody cared how much the gold mirror cost.

Vanessa opened her mouth to speak, but only a dry rasp came out.

“Luca... darling, that is ridiculous. Why would she claim such an absurd lie? She’s a thief. I caught her trying to peel off the gold leaf!”

“Gold leaf doesn’t bleed, Vanessa,” Luca said.

His voice was chillingly level.

He lowered the giant mirror to the marble floor with one arm.

It didn't make a sound.

Not a scrape.

Not a crack.

He took two measured steps toward Vanessa.

The silk of her emerald designer gown rustled as she involuntarily backed away against the grand dining table.

Her silver fork clattered against porcelain.

“You told me she was in the conservatory,” Luca whispered.

“She... she must have been confused, Luca. She’s clumsy. She’s always clumsy!”

“I bought that mirror three days ago from an estate auction in Florence,” Luca said, his gray eyes darkening like storm clouds over the Atlantic. “It went directly to the private vault downstairs. There was only one key handed over to me.”

He paused.

He pulled a golden key from his vest pocket.

Then he looked at Vanessa’s open designer clutch sitting on the mahogany credenza.

Sticking out of the side pocket was an identical brass skeleton key.

“You went into my vault.”

“No! Luca, listen to me—”

“You brought in this listening device.”

“It wasn’t me! Someone planted it! Maybe Claire works for the Bratva! Look at her! Who knows where she came from?”

Luca didn’t look at me.

He looked straight into Vanessa’s terrified eyes.

“Claire’s father took three bullets for my father fifteen years ago.”

The room froze.

Even the armed guards standing at the double doors shifted their stances.

“She doesn't work for the Russians,” Luca continued, his voice cold enough to freeze water. “She cleans my grandfather’s study because she is the only person in this goddamn house whose loyalty was paid for in blood.”

He reached out.

His fingers gripped Vanessa’s chin.

Firmly.

Not crushing, but inescapable.

“Who gave you the transmitter, Vanessa?”

Vanessa began to sob.

Ugly, smeared tears tracked down her perfectly contoured makeup.

“No one... I swear to God, Luca, I swear on my mother’s grave!”

“Your mother died in a casino debt settlement,” Luca said flatly. “Don't swear on dirt that’s already hollow.”

He let her go.

She slumped back into her carved leather chair, shuddering violently.

Luca turned his back on her.

He walked over to me.

I was still standing against the wall, shaking so hard my knees knocked together.

The pain in my forearms was throbbing now that the adrenaline was beginning to crash.

Blood had dripped down onto the white marble floor.

Three small red circles.

Luca stopped inches away.

He was immense.

He smelled of sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and gun oil.

Slowly, without a word, he unbuttoned his tailored suit jacket.

He slipped it off his shoulders.

The heavy cashmere jacket was still warm from his body.

He placed it gently around my trembling shoulders.

It swamped me completely.

The silk lining felt like heaven against my cut, stinging skin.

“Sit down, Claire,” he murmured.

“Mr. Moretti, I... I shouldn't sit at the main table—”

“Sit.”

It wasn't an order spoken in rage.

It was an absolute decree.

I pulled the jacket tighter around myself and slid into the nearest high-backed chair.

Vanessa looked across the table at me.

If looks could ignite human flesh, I would have burned to ash right there.

Luca looked at his men.

“Clear the table. Meeting is postponed.”

The capos stood up instantly.

No questions.

No mutters.

They filed out through the side doors like ghosts, leaving only two trusted lieutenants—Marco and Gianni—stationed at the exits with their hands hovering near their shoulder holsters.

The room was huge.

The chandeliers hummed.