A Little Girl Made Me Laugh for the First Time Since My Wife Died—Then She Pointed at the Locked Room and Said, “The Pretty Lady Told Me.”

Dante’s hand closed around the medical report, crushing the paper in his fist.

*Dead before the engine started.*

The official police report had concluded Carmela lost control of her town car in the rain, hit the concrete barrier on Lake Shore Drive, and the fuel tank ruptured. Dante had accepted it through the fog of his grief. He had buried a closed casket.

Now, every foundation of his life was fracturing.

A twig snapped outside the conservatory glass.

Dante drew his weapon in a fluid motion, aiming through the fractured panes. "Step out. Hands where I can see them."

A figure emerged from the shadows of the garden path. It was Marco.

Marco had his hands raised, his expression grim. "It's me, Dante. Put the gun down."

Dante didn't lower the barrel. "Why are you following me, Marco?"

"Because you're acting erratically," Marco said, stepping inside the broken door. He glanced at the table, his eyes lingering on the coffee thermos and the papers. "You're moving a maid and her kid into the family suite. The guards are talking. The council called an emergency meeting for tomorrow morning. They think you've lost your mind over a ghost."

"Someone was living in this conservatory, Marco," Dante said, his voice flat. "Drinking coffee. Leaving Carmela's medical records."

Marco sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. "Dante... listen to me. Julian Rossi is back in town. We received word from our contacts in New York yesterday."

Dante’s eyes narrowed. "You knew Julian was back and didn't tell me?"

"Because Julian blamed you for Carmela's death!" Marco argued, stepping closer. "He swore revenge at the cemetery. He’s trying to drive a wedge between you and the syndicate. He’s feeding that maid lies, planting things in the house, trying to make you look unhinged so the council replaces you with someone stable."

"Like you?" Dante asked.

The words hung in the damp conservatory like poison.

Marco’s face tightened. "I have bled for this family for twenty years. I protected your back when you couldn't get out of bed for six months after the funeral. Don't insult my loyalty over rumors planted by a ghost."

Dante stared at his cousin. Marco's eyes were steady, his posture defensive but proud. For two decades, Marco had been his most reliable soldier.

"Dismiss the guards outside Carmela's room," Dante said quietly. "I will handle the security myself."

"Dante—"

"Do it, Marco."

Marco gave a curt nod and walked out into the cold night.

Dante returned to the main house. As he reached the second-floor gallery, he noticed the door to Rosa’s suite was cracked open.

He stepped inside silently.

Rosa was not in bed. She was standing near the sitting desk, her hands shaking as she held a piece of paper that had been slipped beneath the hallway door.

When she heard Dante’s footsteps, she spun around, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"He was just here," Rosa whispered, terrified. "Outside my door."