THE MAFIA BOSS THOUGHT HIS FIANCÉE MADE ONE MISTAKE—THEN A BLEEDING MAID EXPOSED HER PLAN TO TAKE HIS MOTHER'S HOME

I didn't sleep after Vanessa's call.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her say it again.

You have no idea what was supposed to happen.

At first I thought she meant Teresa was supposed to be hurt.

Then I wondered whether that was too simple.

What if the fall had only been the beginning?

Detective Alvarez arrived the next morning with a second investigator, a quiet man named Ben Cho. She listened to the recording of Vanessa's call. My phone hadn't recorded the conversation, but I had written down the words immediately afterward, with the time and date.

“That's useful,” she said. “It's not the same as a recording, but keep doing it.”

“What about my signature?”

“We'll obtain the original document and examine where it came from.”

Dad frowned. “You can prove she's lying?”

“We can investigate whether the statement was fabricated,” Alvarez replied. “A suspicious document isn't proof by itself of who made it.”

I was beginning to appreciate that she never promised what she couldn't deliver.

That afternoon, Evelyn called to explain why the forged statement worried her.

“It's not just a threat,” she said. “They may intend to use it in a civil claim or to undermine your testimony.”

“Can I refuse to sign anything else?”

“Absolutely. And if anyone asks you to discuss the accident, call me or your independent counsel first.”

She gave me the number of a legal-aid attorney named Naomi Reed, who agreed to advise me. I liked Naomi immediately because she introduced herself by saying, “I don't work for the Morettis.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear.

By Thursday, my ankle had improved enough for a short visit to the estate. Mrs. Carter greeted me at the service entrance with such a fierce hug that I nearly lost a crutch.

“You aren't supposed to be on that foot,” she scolded.

“And you aren't supposed to smell like cinnamon rolls at ten in the morning without sharing.”

She handed me a paper bag.

Inside were three warm rolls.

“Two for you,” she said, “and one for your father. I know what he'll do if I send only one.”

Teresa was waiting in the sunroom.

She had changed from navy silk into a pale yellow cardigan. The color reminded me of my mother's coffee mug, and the resemblance made me ache in a way I couldn't explain.

“Claire,” she said, “I've canceled the appointment.”

She spoke proudly.

“Good.”

“And I've made another.”

My stomach tightened.

“With whom?”

“A lawyer of my own choosing. Evelyn arranged for me to speak to three, and I liked the second one best.”

I smiled.

“Why?”

“She asked whether I prefer roses or peonies before she asked about my finances.”

That sounded like Teresa.

Then she took my hand.

“I never want anyone speaking as if I don't understand my own home again.”

Her voice was firm.

Luca stood at the far end of the room, listening.

For once, he didn't interrupt.

After Teresa went to fetch the photo album from memory—she kept forgetting it was missing—Luca asked whether he could show me something.

In the library, he laid three photographs across his desk.

The first showed the porch at four twenty-two, taken by the florist while planning the wedding decorations. The second showed a woman in red silk standing near the swing. The third showed that same woman holding a strip of red caution tape.

Vanessa.

I sat down carefully.

“Where did these come from?”

“Florist's phone. She kept all her reference pictures.”

“Does the detective have them?”

“Daniel forwarded the originals and contact details, at her request.”

Eve had included one photograph from inside the dining room, taken before the guests arrived. It showed rows of polished silverware and the place cards Vanessa had ordered in gold lettering.

Mine wasn't among them, of course.

The staff had been instructed to keep to the service corridor unless we were carrying food. That was normal for a formal dinner, but the photograph reminded me how invisible I'd felt beneath the chandeliers.

One card stood out. Teresa Moretti had been seated at the farthest end of the table, near the doorway, while Vanessa's father had been placed beside Luca.

“Did Teresa choose that seat?” I asked.

Luca frowned.

“No. Mom usually sits next to me.”

I pointed at the photograph.

“Vanessa wasn't only rearranging furniture.”

He studied the place cards, his expression tightening.

“Mom said she didn't want to disrupt the seating plan.”

I thought of the woman who'd once stood confidently in her own kitchen, telling Antonio that he'd built their swing backward.

Vanessa had made her feel like a guest in her own home long before the accident.

“People don't lose their confidence all at once,” I said. “Sometimes somebody takes a little piece every day.”

Luca looked at me.

“I didn't see it.”

“No,” I said gently. “But you can see it now.”

I studied the photograph.

Vanessa wasn't looking at the flowers.

She was looking up at the loosened hook.

Behind her stood a man in a gray suit.

“Who's that?” I asked.

Luca's face hardened.

“Julian Pace. My longtime legal adviser.”

“Why was he at a decoration meeting?”

“He says he stopped by to discuss the wedding contract.”

I looked again.

Julian held a blue folder. A small gold lion had been embossed on its corner.

The same lion as the Bellini invitations.

“Does he work for Vanessa?”

“He works for me.”

Luca said the words so quietly that they sounded like an accusation against himself.

I wanted to ask whether he trusted Julian.

Instead, I asked, “Where's the photo album?”

His expression changed.

“Vanessa says she doesn't have it.”

“Teresa told me she borrowed it.”

“I know.”

Luca picked up another folder, this one plain white.

“Mom's lawyer reviewed the property records. My father placed this house in a family trust years ago. Mom has the right to live here for as long as she chooses. Neither Vanessa nor I can force a sale.”

“That should end it.”

“It should.”

He looked toward the window.

“But Vanessa's family has been asking questions about the land for months. There's a developer interested in the waterfront parcels nearby. The estate would be the centerpiece of a private club.”

I stared at him.

“You knew they wanted the house?”

“I knew her father thought the land was valuable. I didn't know he'd made an offer through a separate company.”

“You didn't think to tell Teresa?”

His eyes met mine.

“No. I should have.”

He didn't defend himself. That made it harder to stay angry.

I looked back at the photographs.

“Julian knows about the trust?”

“He helped administer it after Dad died.”

“And Vanessa borrowed the album with papers inside.”

Luca sat down slowly.

The picture was coming together, but it still had enormous holes. Someone wanted Teresa out. Someone wanted documents. Someone had taken the safety tape away, and someone else had moved the camera.

But who stood to gain enough to risk a woman's life?

When I rose to leave, Luca walked me to the sunroom doorway.

“Claire, I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“For never asking why a person who'd worked here for three years was afraid to say she was injured.”

I looked at my bandaged hand.

“I needed the paycheck.”

“That's an explanation. It shouldn't have been a condition of your safety.”

For a moment, the room seemed very small.

His dark hair had escaped its careful shape. His beard was rough along his jaw. A scar crossed one knuckle. The man in front of me wasn't polished or gentle-looking. Yet he was waiting for me to decide whether I wanted to speak.

“I was scared of Vanessa,” I admitted.

“I understand.”

“No, you don't. You could tell her to leave. I thought she could take away the money that bought my father's medication.”

He flinched.

“Then I have more to change than a broken swing.”

Before I could answer, Daniel appeared carrying an evidence inventory the police had asked him to prepare.

“Mr. Moretti, we identified the man who redirected the porch camera.”

Luca turned.

“Who?”

Daniel swallowed.

“Mason Drake. One of our own guards.”

“Where is he?”