A mafia boss slapped me, accused me of dumping his seven-month-old daughter in the trash, and had me dragged away after I saved her from freezing to death. Three days later, a detective uncovered one detail that shattered the nanny’s story, then showed me a photograph that made me realize this was far bigger than attempted murder.

The iron gates of the Valente estate loomed through the thick Chicago fog like the jaws of a sleeping monster.

I stood across the street, pulled deep into my black winter coat, my hood drawn tight over my bruised jaw. My face still throbbed where Adrian’s heavy signet ring had split my skin three days ago. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run—to take the five years of savings I had set aside for Lucia, hire a private driver, and fly her to the surgical clinic in Cleveland.

But twenty thousand dollars wasn't enough for Lucia's specialized heart valve procedure. The full cost was two hundred thousand.

And Detective Santos had made me a deal: Prove who tried to kill Emma Valente, and the Chicago Police Department’s emergency victim fund—combined with a confidential informant reward—would cover every penny of Lucia's surgery.

I checked my phone. 11:42 PM.

According to the schedule I had memorized over six months of cleaning the mansion, Dante Moretti—Adrian’s head of security—conducted his perimeter walk at precisely 11:45 PM.

I crossed the street, stepping over the icy slush at the curb, and slipped into the alleyway near the service entrance. The industrial dumpster where I had found Emma was still there, marked off with faded yellow police tape fluttering in the freezing wind.

A heavy footstep crunched against the gravel.

I backed into the shadow of the stone archway, holding my breath.

A tall figure stepped out of the back security door, lighting a cigarette with a silver zippo. The flame lit up the sharp, angular face of Dante Moretti. He took a drag, his dark eyes scanning the dark alleyway.

"You shouldn't be here, Maya."

His voice was low, smooth, and utterly devoid of surprise.

I stepped out of the shadows, keeping my hands visible in the beam of the alley's halogen light. "You knew I was coming."

Dante exhaled a long cloud of gray smoke into the freezing air. "Santos called my private line twenty minutes ago. She said a very stupid maid with a dead jaw was heading my way."

"I'm not stupid, Dante," I said, taking two slow steps closer. "And I didn't drug that baby."

Dante dropped his cigarette onto the wet asphalt and crushed it under his leather boot. He looked at me with an expression that wasn't hatred—it was heavy, exhausting suspicion.

"I stood in that room, Maya," Dante said quietly. "I saw the baby's temperature. I saw the doctor give her oxygen. Adrian almost tore this city apart looking for who paid you."

"Nobody paid me!" I hissed, stepping directly into his space, pointing at my swollen lip. "Karen Mitchell took twenty grand from a Cayman Islands account four days ago. Check her locker. Check the prescription bottle of Alprazolam hidden behind her extra uniforms."

Dante’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "How do you know about the locker?"

"Because Detective Santos knows," I countered fast. "And because the woman who ordered Emma put into that trash can isn't dead. She’s living in a high-rise in the Gold Coast."

Dante grabbed my arm—not violently, but with an iron grip that locked me in place. "Watch your mouth, Maya. Elena Valente died in an explosion on Lake Shore Drive. I personally identified the wreckage."

"Did you identify her face?" I demanded, staring right into his dark eyes. "Or did you just identify a burnt frame and a wedding ring found in the ash?"

Dante went completely still. The silence between us stretched so tight it felt as though a single breath would snap it.

His grip on my arm slowly loosened.

"You're telling me Elena is alive?" Dante whispered.

"I saw the photograph," I said. "Taken three days ago outside a coffee shop on Michigan Avenue. She’s using Karen to kill Emma before the child turns one year old. If Emma dies, the family trust doesn't go to Adrian—it reverts entirely to Elena's bloodline through her father's estate."

Dante lowered his head, a dark, dangerous growl escaping his throat. "That bitch..."

"I need to talk to Adrian," I said.

Dante looked up, his face grim. "He’ll kill you the second you walk through that door, Maya. He hasn't slept in seventy-two hours. He’s spent the last three days sitting in the nursery with a loaded pistol on his lap, watching Emma sleep."

"Then help me get into the house without him shooting me," I pleaded, my voice trembling with raw desperation. "My sister has two months to live, Dante. I don't have time to play nice."