THE MAFIA BOSS SAW HIS FIANCÉE WEARING THE BROOCH HIS DEAD MOTHER WAS BURIED WITH—THEN THE WAITRESS WHISPERED, “SIR, THAT CLASP WAS OPENED YESTERDAY.”

At the center of the chamber, resting atop a raised carved catafalque, was the heavy bronze sarcophagus of Donna Lucia DeLuca.

The lead seal along the rim had been chiseled open.

Fresh scratches scored the polished metal around the locking lugs.

Adrian walked forward with measured, terrifying calm. His boots clicked against the stone floor like the ticking of a grandfather clock counting down to an execution.

He reached out with his bare hands, gripping the heavy bronze lid, and shoved it back with a single, furious burst of strength.

The metal groaned against stone.

Inside, lined with aged ivory satin, lay the resting place of his mother.

The silk burial shroud had been pushed aside. The lace collar of her navy blue dress was torn open at the throat, right where the gold swallow brooch had once been pinned.

Adrian closed his eyes for three long seconds. His knuckles turned white where his hands gripped the bronze rim of the casket.

“They desecrated my mother’s body for a piece of paper,” he whispered, his voice vibrating with a subterranean wrath that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“Mr. DeLuca,” I said, stepping closer despite the cold terror gripping my stomach.

He opened his eyes. “What is it, Claire?”

“Look at the silk lining near her left hand,” I pointed.

When I had dressed Mrs. DeLuca for her burial eight months earlier, her hands had been folded across her chest holding a mother-of-pearl rosary.

Now, her left arm had been moved, resting unnaturally along the side of the casket.

And tucked beneath the satin fold beneath her fingertips was a small, flat object wrapped in oilcloth.

Adrian reached into the casket with infinite reverence. His large, scarred fingers gently bypassed his mother’s resting hands and lifted the package from the velvet lining.

He peeled back the oilcloth.

Inside was an antique leather pocket notebook, its edges bound with brass wire.

Written across the cover in weathered, faded black ink was a familiar name:

Thomas Bennett — Port of New York, Harbor Terminal 4.

My knees nearly gave out. I reached out, steadying myself against the cold stone edge of the catafalque.

“My father’s notebook,” I choked out, tears burning my eyes.

Adrian opened the first page.

Taped inside the leather cover was a certified birth certificate and a handwritten letter addressed to Donna Lucia DeLuca, dated October 12, 2008—two days before my father died.

Adrian read the letter aloud, his deep baritone echoing through the vaulted stone chamber:

“Lucia: If you are reading this, Arthur Romano has made his move. The container manifests from Pier 42 prove that Romano’s family has been laundering federal cartel money through our joint port accounts for eight years. I have hidden the master encrypted keys inside the swallow brooch. If anything happens to me, protect my daughter Claire. She knows nothing of this life. She is the only innocent soul left in this city.”

Adrian looked up from the page, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that took my breath away.

“My mother didn't hire you as a housekeeper by accident nine months ago, Claire,” Adrian murmured softly.

The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

“What... what are you saying, sir?”

“My mother spent her last six months looking for Thomas Bennett’s children,” Adrian explained, stepping closer, his hand gently lifting to touch my shoulder. “She knew Romano was circling like a vulture, waiting for her to die so he could force an alliance with me and take total control of the docks. She brought you into our house to ensure that when the time came, you were within reach of my protection.”

Suddenly, Michael’s radio crackled with a burst of static.