THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME TO GET RID OF HIS OLD DOG BEFORE THEIR ENGAGEMENT DINNER—BUT WHEN I CARRIED HIM INTO THE DINING ROOM, THE MOST FEARED MAN IN CHICAGO GOT DOWN ON HIS KNEES.

The safe house was a nondescript, brick-faced warehouse in the industrial wasteland of the South Loop, sandwiched between abandoned rail yards and rusted shipping containers. From the outside, it looked like a derelict meatpacking plant. Inside, it was a subterranean fortress equipped with satellite communications, medical supplies, and enough firepower to repel a small army.

Antonio and Daniel had brought Barnaby from the manor an hour before the police could lock down the perimeter. When I walked through the heavy steel door, the old dog immediately pushed past Antonio, trotting straight to me and burying his heavy head into my waist, letting out a deep shudder of relief.

"Good boy," I whispered, sinking to the cold concrete floor, wrapping my arms around his neck, my face buried in his thick fur. My hands were trembling violently now that the adrenaline was draining away.

Luca was on the other side of the room, stripping off his blood-stained tuxedo jacket. Daniel was working on a shallow graze on Luca’s left shoulder, swabbing the flesh with iodine. Luca didn't even flinch. His eyes were glued to a series of old black-leather notebooks laid out across a steel table—notebooks that Antonio had managed to retrieve from our father's hidden vault before evacuating the manor.

"There’s something wrong with Marco Santoro's story," I said suddenly, lifting my head from Barnaby.

The room went quiet. Luca turned to look at me, a sterile bandage taped over his shoulder.

"What do you mean, Emma?" Luca asked softly.

I stood up, walking toward the table, Barnaby trailing closely at my heels.

"In the ruins of Lake Forest, Clara said your father traded her to the Santoros to pay off a gambling debt," I said, my mind racing through every word Clara had spoken on that ruined balcony. "She said she was kept in a cellar in Corleone for seven years. But tonight, Marco Santoro said Clara was 'collateral he promised us.' If your father traded her willingly, why did Carlo confess on his deathbed that *he* was the one who stole her?"

Luca’s eyes sharpened. He stepped toward the table, his fingers flipping through his father's handwritten journals.

"Carlo’s handwriting is all over the financial ledgers," Luca murmured, his voice tightening. "Look at this. May 14th, twenty-two years ago. Two weeks before the fire."

He pushed a faded ledger toward me.

Written in the late Don Moretti’s rigid, elegant cursive was an entry that made my heart stop:

*“Carlo is spiraling. The Santoro family is threatening to call in his debts. He tried to access the family trust today. I refused him. He warned me that if I did not pay, the fire would take what I love most. I have moved Clara to the Sisters of St. Jude in upstate Illinois under an assumed name until the threat is neutralized.”*

Luca dropped the book onto the table, his face turning completely gray.

"She was never in the house when it burned," Luca choked out, his fingers clutching the edge of the steel table until the metal groaned under the force. "Our father didn't trade her. Our father *hid* her in a convent to protect her from Carlo! Carlo tracked her down after the fire, took her from the nuns, and sold her to Palermo to cover his own skin!"

"She doesn't know," I gasped, the horrifying tragedy of the deception crashing over me. "Clara spent twenty-two years believing her own father traded her away like an animal, when in reality, he died trying to keep her safe! Carlo lied to her. The Santoros lied to her. They brainwashed her into believing you were the favored son who let her rot, just so they could turn her into a weapon to wipe out the Chicago family!"

"We have to go to St. Jude’s," Antonio said, his young voice trembling with fury. "The records must still be there. The baptismal certificates, the intake logs. If we show her the convent's records, she’ll know."

"No," Luca said, his voice dropping into that deadly, terrifying calm that signaled a decision had been made. "Clara won't believe paper. Santoro has spent two decades whispering poison into her ear. She will only believe one thing."

He turned to Daniel.

"Where is Marco Santoro staying?"

Daniel pulled up a satellite feed on the wall monitor. "The Drake Hotel, presidential suite. He has thirty men posted on the top two floors. Clara is with him."

Luca pulled an assault rifle from the rack on the wall, racking the bolt with a sharp, mechanical clack that rang through the underground room like a bell tolling for the dead.

"Antonio, stay here with Emma and Barnaby," Luca commanded.

"No!" I cried, grabbing his arm. "Luca, you can't walk into the Drake Hotel with thirty Sicilian enforcers waiting for you! It’s suicide!"

Luca looked at me, his eyes softening with an ocean of unspeakable tenderness. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping away a streak of ash from my cheek.

"I won't lose my sister to a lie, Emma," he whispered. "And I won't let her spend the rest of her life trapped in the dark that almost killed me. I am going to tear Marco Santoro’s heart out of his chest, and then I am going to bring my sister home."

Before I could stop him, Barnaby let out a sharp, commanding bark. The old dog walked to the heavy steel door, sat down squarely in front of it, and stared at Luca with ancient, unyielding eyes.