Chapter 3
Clara stared at the ink until her eyes blurred.
Julian’s handwriting. She would recognize the sharp slant of his *k* and the cross of his *t* anywhere. But Julian was dead. She had stood by the casket in that dreary cemetery outside Syracuse three years ago. She had signed the death certificate issued by the county coroner.
How had a fresh note ended up inside Emma’s shoe?
"Emma," Clara whispered, keeping her voice as calm as humanly possible. "Did someone touch your shoe today? While you were playing in the courtyard garden?"
Emma tapped her chin with Mr. Bunny’s ear. "The nice old man with the silver hair. He said I dropped my ribbon."
*Don Ricci.*
Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs. Don Ricci was the head of the southern boroughs, a man whose reputation for ruthlessness was matched only by his absolute hatred of the Moretti family. Why would an old crime boss slip a note into a three-year-old child's shoe during an engagement party?
Before she could process the thought, the lift doors opened onto the luxurious third-floor landing.
Marco was already waiting. The heavy-set security chief stood with his hands folded in front of his suit. "Mrs. Bennett. This way."
The west suite was larger than Clara’s entire apartment back in Syracuse. Polished oak floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured grounds of the estate, and a king-sized canopy bed. On the dining table sat a tray of warm soup, fresh bread, and fruit.
"Mr. Moretti’s orders," Marco said, holding the door. "You are to stay inside. A doctor will arrive in twenty minutes to check the child."
"We don’t need a doctor," Clara said quickly. "Emma is healthy. We just want to go home, Marco."
"This is your home for now," Marco said impassively, then pulled the heavy door shut. The lock clicked.
Clara locked the interior latch and rushed to her bag. She pulled out her phone—no service. The estate was running localized signal jammers, standard protocol for high-level syndicate gatherings.
She needed answers, and she couldn't afford to sit like a caged bird.
She waited until Emma ate half a bowl of broth and fell asleep on the massive bed, clutching her rabbit. Clara covered her with the cashmere throw, then walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Down below, the courtyard was clearing out. Black town cars were slipping through the heavy iron gates. But near the fountain, illuminated by the garden sconces, two figures stood talking in hushed, hurried whispers.
Clara leaned closer to the glass.
Vivian Romano was standing by the stone fountain, still wearing her red gown, her arms crossed tightly.
And standing opposite her, smoking a thin cigar, was Don Ricci.
Clara watched, holding her breath. Vivian pulled something from her evening clutch—a small, square silver key—and handed it to Ricci. Ricci slipped it into his breast pocket, patted Vivian’s cheek with familiar, affectionate arrogance, and turned toward his waiting car.
Vivian stood alone in the dark for a long moment, looking up directly toward the third-floor windows.
Clara pulled back behind the velvet curtain, her pulse racing. Vivian wasn't just a spoiled socialite throwing tantrums. She was meeting secretly with Alessandro’s greatest rival on the night of her own engagement celebration.
Clara looked down at the note in her hand.
*He knows who died.*
Who was "he"? Alessandro? Or Ricci?
A sudden soft click came from the suite's private bathroom door—an interior passage connecting to the adjacent study.
The door swung inward.
Alessandro stood in the frame, having shed his suit jacket, his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He held a glass of dark amber whiskey in one hand, and a thick leather folder in the other.
May you like
"You're awake," he said quietly.
***
