Chapter 4 – THE BREACH AT THE GATES

The sound of shattering wood echoed through the grand foyer.

“Mommy!” Sophie screamed, burying her face in my neck.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered, lifting her into my arms despite my trembling knees.

Luca didn’t hesitate. He pulled a radio from his belt. “Lock down the perimeter. Nobody gets past the iron gates.”

He turned to his head of security. “Get my mother to the panic room. Emily, go with them.”

“No,” Teresa said, standing up slowly but with absolute authority. “I am not hiding in a basement on my birthday.”

“Mother, this isn’t a negotiation,” Luca said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Another massive crash sounded from the driveway.

I ran, following the security detail down the long, shadowed hallway toward the back of the mansion. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat screaming a single thought: I have to keep her safe.

We reached the heavy steel door of the safe room. The guard punched in a code, and the door hissed open.

Inside, it looked like a high-end hotel suite, complete with cameras showing the entire property.

I set Sophie down on a velvet couch. She was crying silently, her little hands gripping my dress.

Teresa sat beside her, gently patting her hair. “Hush, bambina. Luca will not let anything happen to us. He is a good man.”

I looked at the security monitors.

Outside, three black SUVs had crashed through the front wrought-iron gates. Men in dark clothes were swarming the lawn, armed.

They weren’t here to rob the place. They were here for Sophie.

“Why does my family matter so much?” I asked Teresa, my voice breaking. “My grandmother never spoke of the mafia. We were poor. She worked in a bakery.”

Teresa sighed, her aged eyes filled with sorrow. “Because your grandfather wasn’t just a baker, Emily. He was the bookkeeper for the entire Chicago syndicate. When he died, a ledger went missing. A ledger containing the offshore accounts of every corrupt politician in the state.”

I stared at her, stunned. “A ledger?”

“The Rossis believe your grandmother hid it,” Teresa explained. “And they believe she passed the secret down to you. That locket you wear… it’s not just jewelry. It’s a key.”

My hand flew to my chest.

I pulled the silver locket off my neck and pried it open. Inside was a tiny, faded photograph of my grandparents.

But behind the photograph, folded into a microscopic square, was a fragile piece of parchment.

I pulled it out with shaking fingers and unfolded it.

It wasn’t a map or an account number.

It was a birth certificate.

I read the name at the top, the breath leaving my lungs in a violent rush.

It wasn’t my birth certificate. It was Andrew’s.

And the father listed wasn’t a random salesman from Ohio.

The father listed was Carlo Rossi.

Andrew wasn’t a degenerate gambler who owed the mafia money.

He was one of them.