THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME “A STUPID LITTLE MAID” IN FRONT OF THIRTY GUESTS—BECAUSE I HAD JUST PULLED HIS CHAIR AWAY BEFORE HE COULD SIT DOWN. At 8:47 p.m., Luca Moretti was about to take his seat at the head of his engagement dinner when I grabbed the back of his chair and dragged it away from the table.

The service corridor behind the walls of the Moretti mansion was pitch black, smelling of dust, dry wall, and copper pipes.

I moved as fast as I could in the cramped space, my hands scraping against the rough wooden studs. My breathing sounded too loud in the darkness, but the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of Luca right behind me kept me moving forward.

“Take a left at the next junction,” I whispered, wiping cobwebs from my face. “It drops us right behind the nursery closet.”

“Keep going, Grace,” Luca replied, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated against the narrow walls.

Below us, muffled through the floorboards, I could hear the sounds of doors being kicked open. Julian’s men were tearing the second floor apart. They were closing in.

I didn't understand how my life had spiraled into this nightmare. Two hours ago, my biggest worry was whether my mother’s bank would grant an extension on her mortgage payment. Now, I was crawling through a hidden tunnel with a mafia boss, trying to save a six-year-old boy I wasn't even supposed to know existed.

We reached the end of the crawlspace. A faint sliver of light outlined the hidden access panel.

I pressed my ear against the wood.

Silence.

I pushed the panel open. We tumbled out into the massive walk-in closet of the east wing nursery. I scrambled to my feet, brushing dust off my black housekeeper’s uniform. Luca stood up instantly, his gun raised, sweeping the room.

The nursery was beautifully decorated in soft blues and creams. Expensive wooden toys were arranged perfectly on the shelves. A large, plush bear sat in the corner.

But the room was completely destroyed.

The heavy mahogany dresser was overturned. The mattress was ripped off the small bed. Feathers from torn pillows drifted in the air like snow.

And lying on the plush rug near the door was the live-in nanny, Mrs. Gable.

She wasn't moving.

“Leo!” Luca shouted, dropping his professional calm. He ran to the bed, checking under it. “Leo!”

The room was empty.

I ran to Mrs. Gable. I dropped to my knees, pressing two fingers to her neck. Her pulse was strong. She had a nasty bruise on her forehead, but she was breathing steadily.

As I pulled my hand away, I noticed something sticking out of the pocket of her pristine white cardigan.

It was a piece of glossy paper, folded in half.

I pulled it out.

It was a faded photograph.

I stared at it, my stomach twisting into a cold, hard knot.

The picture showed two women sitting at a Parisian cafe. One of them was a much younger Vanessa, her red hair blowing in the wind. The other woman was Mrs. Gable. Only, Mrs. Gable didn't look like a sweet, grandmotherly nanny. She was wearing a sharp tailored suit, counting a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills.

Written on the back in blue ink were three words: Payment one of ten.

The reversal hit me like a physical blow.

Mrs. Gable hadn't been knocked out trying to protect Leo from Julian’s men. She was working for Vanessa. Vanessa had placed her own handler inside the nursery to keep Leo contained, waiting for the right moment to use the boy as leverage. Mrs. Gable had faked the struggle to make it look like she was a victim.

“Luca,” I gasped, holding up the photograph. “Vanessa paid the nanny. She knew exactly where Leo was all along.”

Luca snatched the photograph from my hand. His eyes scanned the image, his jaw locking so tight I thought his teeth might shatter.

“She didn't want to protect him,” Luca whispered, the betrayal burning in his eyes. “Vanessa was holding him hostage under my own roof.”

But before he could process the fury, a heavy thud echoed from the hallway. Julian’s men had reached the third floor.

“Where is he, Grace?” Luca demanded, turning to me, panic finally cracking his stoic mask. “If he’s not in here, where did he go?”

I looked around the torn-apart room.

I thought about the stray crayons I used to find under the dresser. I thought about the tiny, muddy footprints I sometimes had to scrub near the window seat.

And then I remembered a secret I had discovered three months ago.

One Sunday, while dusting, I had heard a soft crying sound. I had followed it to the large, built-in window seat overlooking the gardens. I had opened the wooden storage bench, expecting to find extra blankets.

Instead, I had found a terrified little boy with dark curly hair, clutching a book about dinosaurs. I hadn't told Luca. I hadn't told Vanessa. I had simply sat on the floor, handed the boy a smuggled chocolate chip cookie, and read him the book until he fell asleep.

“The window seat,” I whispered.

I ran to the large bay window. The plush cushion had been thrown to the floor by Julian’s men during their search, but the heavy wooden lid of the storage bench was still closed tight.

I dropped to my knees. I tapped twice on the wood, paused, and tapped three times. It was the rhythm I used when I brought him cookies.

For a terrifying second, there was no answer.

Then, the wooden lid slowly creaked open.

A pair of wide, terrified brown eyes peered out from the darkness.

“Leo,” Luca breathed, dropping to his knees beside me. He holstered his gun and reached into the dark space, pulling the small boy into his arms.

Leo buried his face in Luca’s neck, his small hands gripping Luca’s shirt tight. He was trembling violently, but he wasn't crying. He was trying to be brave.

“I hid, Uncle Luca,” Leo whispered. “Like you told me. When the bad men come, I hide.”

“You did perfect, buddy,” Luca choked out, burying his face in the boy’s dark curls. “You did perfect.”

I watched the ruthless mafia boss hold the child like he was made of glass, and my heart ached. This wasn't a cold-blooded killer protecting an 'asset.' This was a desperate uncle trying to save the only family he had left.

“We have to go,” I said softly, looking toward the heavy bedroom door. The footsteps in the hallway were right outside. Someone rattled the locked doorknob.

“Open it!” a rough voice shouted from the hall. “Kick it down!”

Luca stood up, shielding Leo behind his large frame. He drew his weapon again, aiming it dead center at the heavy oak door.

“Get behind the bed, Grace,” Luca ordered.

But Leo tugged on my skirt.

I looked down.

Leo was pointing a small, shaking finger toward the shattered glass of the French doors that led to the third-floor balcony. The wind and rain from the Chicago night were howling into the room.

“Grace,” Leo whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm. “The bad man is outside.”

I spun around.

Standing on the balcony, soaked by the freezing rain, was Julian Moretti.

He was holding a silver pistol in one hand.

And in the other hand, he was holding a crumpled piece of paper—a child’s drawing.