GIVE ME THAT KEY, YOU IGNORANT LITTLE MAID! YOU DON'T EVEN SPEAK ITALIAN!” THE MAFIA BOSS'S FIANCÉE HUMILIATED HIS 25-YEAR-OLD HOUSEKEEPER IN FRONT OF FIFTY DINNER GUESTS—BUT WHEN THE MAID REFUSED TO HAND OVER THE KEY TO HIS NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER'S BEDROOM -

Chapter 1 – THE LOCKED DOOR AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS

“Little Bird.”

Isabella’s voice trembled, but the words echoed in the silent dining room.

Luca Moretti turned to stone. The silver fork in his hand clattered against his china plate.

“What did you say?” his voice was a dangerous whisper.

“Little Bird,” Isabella repeated, tears spilling down her cheeks. “The lady behind the door… she whispered it through the wood. She said, ‘Don’t cry, my Little Bird.’”

Only Elena had called her that. Not even Luca used that name.

Vanessa’s face lost all its color. She backed toward the dining room doors, her red gown suddenly looking like a harsh mistake.

“Luca, it’s a trick,” Vanessa stammered, her hands shaking as she gripped her purse. “The maid taught her to say that. Emily is trying to ruin us!”

I stood my ground, my hand resting gently on Isabella’s shoulder. “I’ve never heard that name before in my life, Mrs. Bellini.”

Luca didn’t look at Vanessa. He didn’t look at me. His dark eyes were fixed on Antonio, the trembling locksmith.

“Give me the key.”

Antonio didn’t hesitate. He dropped the heavy brass key into Luca’s outstretched palm.

“Cancel the dinner,” Luca ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority.

The fifty wealthy guests didn’t murmur. They stood up in unison, practically running for the coat check. When the mafia boss told you to leave, you didn’t ask for dessert.

“Emily,” Luca said, his eyes finally meeting mine. “Bring Isabella. You’re coming with me.”

“Luca, no!” Vanessa lunged forward, grabbing his arm. “You can’t go up there! She’s sick! She’s contagious!”

Luca didn’t yell. He didn’t have to. He simply looked at her hand on his sleeve until she slowly let go.

“If you are lying to me, Vanessa,” he said softly, “there is no plane fast enough to take you where I won’t find you.”

We walked up the grand mahogany staircase. My heart hammered against my ribs. Isabella gripped my hand so tightly her knuckles were white.

At the end of the hall stood the heavy oak door to Elena’s old bedroom.

The room that had been sealed for eighteen months.

Luca slid the brass key into the new lock. It clicked loudly in the silent hallway.

He pushed the door open.

The room was pitch black. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the Chicago skyline. The air smelled of lavender and something metallic. Medicine.

Luca reached for the light switch.

“Don’t.”

The voice came from the corner of the room. It was raspy, weak, and heartbreakingly familiar to the man standing beside me.

Luca froze. “Elena?”

A figure shifted in the shadows, sitting in a high-backed armchair.

“She is not here, Luca,” the woman whispered in Italian.

My breath caught. I reached for the wall switch and flipped it.

The woman in the chair raised a trembling hand to shield her eyes. She wore a faded blue nightgown. Her hair was silver, her face lined with exhaustion.

It wasn’t Elena.

It was an older woman. She looked at least sixty.

Luca stared at her in utter confusion. “Who are you? Why are you in my wife’s room?”

The woman slowly lowered her hand. Around her wrist, catching the light, was a heavy silver rosary.

Luca stepped back as if he’d been struck. “Where did you get that?”

The woman looked at Isabella, offering a sad, broken smile. “I was the nurse who held your wife’s hand in the hospital, Mr. Moretti. The night she supposedly died.”

She unclasped the rosary and held it out.

“She gave this to me. And she told me to find you. Because there wasn’t a car crash, Mr. Moretti.” The nurse looked directly at the door, where Vanessa had just appeared, her face twisted in panic. “Your fiancée poisoned her.”