Chapter 1 – THE SCREAM IN THE UPSTAIRS HALLWAY

Luca didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t look at his security team.

He simply moved.

He dropped Richard’s wrist and sprinted toward the grand staircase.

I ran right behind him, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack them.

Katie.

My nineteen-year-old sister. The girl I had promised my dying father I would always protect.

“Daniel!” Luca roared over his shoulder. “Lock the doors! Nobody leaves!”

We reached the top of the stairs in seconds.

The second floor of the mansion was vast, lined with guest suites and private studies.

The scream had come from the east wing.

Vanessa’s private dressing room.

Luca drew a dark, heavy firearm from beneath his tailored jacket.

He didn’t kick the door open. He turned the handle silently and pushed it wide.

I gasped.

Katie was backed into the corner of the dressing room, clutching a heavy brass candlestick.

Her uniform was torn at the shoulder. Her face was pale with terror.

But it wasn’t Richard Vale standing in the room with her. Richard was downstairs.

It was a man I recognized instantly.

Marcus. Vanessa’s personal driver.

He had a deep scratch across his cheek where Katie had fought back.

“Step away from her,” Luca commanded, his voice lethal.

Marcus froze. He raised his hands slowly, dropping a small leather bag he had been trying to force Katie into.

“Boss, wait,” Marcus stammered. “Miss Bellini told me to prep the girl for transport. She said Richard paid for her.”

Luca’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened to pitch black.

“You take orders from me,” Luca said softly. “Not my fiancée. Not her guests.”

I ran to Katie. I threw my arms around her, pulling her trembling body against mine.

“I’m sorry, Em,” Katie sobbed into my shoulder. “I was just putting his coat away. I found something in the pocket. He caught me looking at it.”

Luca kept his weapon trained on the driver.

“What did you find, Katie?” Luca asked.

Katie reached into the pocket of her torn apron.

Her hand was shaking violently.

She pulled out a crumpled, faded photograph and held it out.

Luca didn’t look away from Marcus. “Emma. Take it.”

I reached over and took the photograph from my sister.

I turned it over.

My blood ran cold.

It was a picture of Luca’s father, the late Don Moretti, lying on the floor of his study. It was a crime scene photo. The night he supposedly died of a sudden heart attack five years ago.

But he wasn’t alone in the picture.

Standing over his body, holding a small glass vial, was Richard Vale.

And standing right beside Richard, looking directly at the camera with a cold, calculating smile, was Vanessa.

“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, handing the photograph to him.

Luca glanced at the picture.

For three seconds, the most powerful man in Chicago stopped breathing.

His entire life, his grief, the narrative of his father’s natural death—shattered in an instant.

Marcus lunged.

Not for Luca. For me.

He pulled a switchblade from his pocket, aiming straight for my chest.

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