he first sound that terrified me wasn’t a gunshot. It was laughter. Bright, uncontrollable, childish laughter spilling through the spotless marble kitchen of Dominic Moretti—the most feared man in Boston. And when I saw who was laughing, my stomach dropped. Dominic’s six-year-old son, Leo, stood barefoot in a puddle of soapy water, his expensive shirt soaked through, his dark hair dripping over his forehead.

By Friday afternoon, an unusual rhythm had formed inside the mansion.

Having Lily around seemed to perform a miracle on Leo. My daughter was fearless, full of giggles, and completely indifferent to the somber rules of the Moretti household. She forced Leo to build block towers, dragged him through coloring books, and shared her battered stuffed bunny without hesitation. For the first time, laughter echoed through the vast hallways during the daytime.

Dominic was rarely home during the day, spending his hours at his corporate headquarters downtown or dealing with the unseen machinery of his underworld empire. But whenever his heavy car pulled up the gravel driveway in the evening, the atmosphere shifted.

That evening, a torrential rainstorm battered the Boston coastline. Thunder rattled the stained-glass windows of the third floor.

I was finishing laundry in the south wing when a sudden crash of thunder shook the floorboards. A second later, a high-pitched cry pierced the air.

*Lily.*

I dropped the basket of linens and sprinted toward the east corridor where the children's playroom was located. When I reached the room, the door was wide open, and the room was empty.

"Lily? Leo?" I called out, panic rising in my throat.

The third floor of the mansion was vast, mostly composed of guest suites and storage rooms, but the far western wing was strictly off-limits. Mrs. Higgins had made it crystal clear on my first day: *The doors with the gold ivy crest remain locked. Never knock. Never enter.*

I ran down the dimly lit hallway, following the faint sound of sniffling.

To my horror, the heavy double doors at the end of the hall—the ones bearing the gold ivy crest—were standing slightly ajar. A faint glow of amber light spilled out onto the dark floor.

"Lily!" I whispered harshly, pushing past the heavy door.

What I stepped into took my breath away.

It wasn't an office or an armory. It was a sunroom converted into a private gallery. The walls were covered with oil paintings—dozens of them. Every single canvas depicted the same woman. She had dark wavy hair, luminous green eyes, and a bright, radiant smile that seemed to light up the canvas. In several paintings, she held a newborn baby wrapped in a blue blanket.

In the center of the room sat Lily on the floor, mesmerized by a large music box shaped like an antique carousel. She had accidentally knocked over a small porcelain vase, which lay shattered on the Persian rug.

Leo was kneeling next to her, looking terrified. "We weren't supposed to come in here," he cried softly. "Lily chased the kitten in here... Isabella, please don't be mad."

"Oh, sweetie, come here, both of you," I rushed forward, sweeping Lily into one arm and pulling Leo toward me. "We need to get out of here right now before—"

"Before who finds you?"

The voice was pure venom.

I froze.

Dominic stood in the doorway. He was drenched in rain, water dripping from his black trench coat onto the threshold. In his right hand, he held a leather briefcase; his tie was pulled loose, and his eyes were wild with fury.

He saw the shattered porcelain vase on the floor.

He saw Lily sitting on his late wife's rug.

The temperature in the room plummeted to absolute zero.