THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME PLACE A DINNER PLATE IN FRONT OF HIS NINE-YEAR-OLD SON AT HIS ENGAGEMENT PARTY—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “HE ALREADY ATE UPSTAIRS,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY THE LITTLE BOY HAD BEEN SITTING WITH AN EMPTY PLATE FOR NEARLY AN HOUR.

I crept down the plush hallway in my soft-soled cleaning shoes, every creak of the floorboards sounding like a gunshot in the midnight stillness.

Vanessa’s suite was locked, but Mrs. Gable had slipped me the master skeleton key before I left the linen room.

The brass key turned silently in the heavy oak lock.

I pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, sliding it shut behind me with infinite care.

The room was bathed in the pale moonlight filtering through the sheer velvet curtains.

On the king-sized bed, designer dresses were draped carelessly over silk duvets.

I moved directly toward the massive mahogany wardrobe against the far wall.

My hands were slick with cold sweat as I grasped the carved wooden doors and pulled them open.

Rows of designer coats and evening gowns parted, revealing the heavily paneled back wall of the closet.

Following Mrs. Gable’s instructions, I pressed my fingers against the bottom left corner of the wood paneling and slid it upward.

A heavy steel safe door was embedded in the masonry behind it.

"Come on... come on," I muttered under my breath, my eyes scanning the digital keypad.

There was no physical dial—just a glowing blue number pad.

What would Vanessa use for a combination?

Her birthday?

I pressed the digits of her birth date.

BZZZZ.

A red light flashed.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

If I triggered the silent alarm, security would be here in thirty seconds.

I paused, breathing deeply, forcing my racing thoughts to slow down.

Vanessa wasn't sentimental about her own birthday.

What did she care about above everything else?

Power. Control. The Moretti name.

I looked down at the small gold bracelet I had seen her wearing earlier that evening—the one inscribed with Roman numerals.

I calculated the numbers in my head.

The date Luca Moretti’s first wife officially passed away.

The day Vanessa marked her victory.

With trembling fingers, I punched the combination into the keypad: 0-9-1-2.

A soft, melodic chime echoed from the safe.

The heavy steel door popped open a fraction of an inch.

I exhaled a breath I felt like I'd been holding for an eternity.

Pulling the door wide open, I rifled through the stacks of documents inside.

Jewelry, bearer bonds, offshore bank account statements—and right at the bottom, a thick manila folder labeled: MORETTI – TRANSFER AND CUSTODY ASSIGNMENT.

I pulled it out and flipped open the cover.

Inside were official-looking legal documents bearing Benjamin’s name, complete with forged signatures mimicking Luca’s distinct handwriting, and a travel itinerary for a private jet departing for Zurich at 6:00 AM on Saturday—the exact morning of the wedding.

Attached to the back was a cashier's check made out to Vanessa in the amount of two million dollars, signed by a shell corporation linked to the Brighton Beach syndicate.

I pulled my phone from my apron pocket and began snapping rapid photographs of every single page.

Click. Click. Click.

Suddenly, the lock on the suite’s main door clicked.

Footsteps echoed softly on the marble entryway.

Panic seized my chest.

I slammed the safe shut, shoved the manila folder back into place, pushed the wooden panel down, and scrambled out of the wardrobe just as the bedroom door swung wide open.