Hundreds of powerful people filled Seattle’s Grand Pacific Ballroom, yet the seventeen-year-old daughter of the most feared mafia boss on the West Coast stood against a wall as if she were part of the decoration. Nobody seemed willing to truly speak to her, and when I finally crossed the room and raised my hands to sign, her face lit up just as every conversation behind me suddenly stopped.

My apartment on Capitol Hill was tiny, cold, and smelled perpetually of old radiator steam and damp wool.

I locked the double deadbolts, put the chain on the door, and turned on the small desk lamp in the corner of my living room. I didn't even take off my wet heels. I sat down at my kitchen table, picked up the silver letter opener I’d inherited from my grandmother, and sliced open the top of the heavy cream cardstock envelope.

Inside were two items.

The first was a folded piece of heavy stationery bearing the silver embossed crest of the Holloway family. Written across the center in sharp, jagged black ink were five lines:

He watches everything. He thinks he's protecting me, but he's keeping me in a cage. They think I'm broken because I can't hear their voices. I know what happened to my mother. Help me.

My breath hitched. I read the lines three times, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I know what happened to my mother.

Five years ago, the news in Seattle had been consumed by the sudden, tragic death of Eleanor Holloway—Graham’s wife and a beloved local philanthropist. Official police reports claimed she had died in a tragic jet-ski accident off Bainbridge Island during a storm. Her body was never recovered, and the case was closed within forty-eight hours under mysterious, high-level political pressure.

The second item inside the envelope was a folded index card with a dark red wax seal.

Inside was a address written in neat block lettering:

1402 Crestview Drive, Mercer Island. Tomorrow. 10:00 AM. Come as the private tutor.

Attached to the card with a small silver paperclip was a cashier's check made out to Claire Bennett.

I looked at the number written on the line.

Ten thousand dollars.

My hands began to shake violently. Ten thousand dollars was enough to pay my six months of overdue rent, fix my car's failing transmission, and keep my freelance agency afloat for an entire year. It was more money than I had made in the last four months combined.

This wasn't just a request for help. It was a lifeline wrapped in a death trap.

I set the check down on the wooden table, staring at the address on Mercer Island.

Mercer Island was where Seattle's ultra-wealthy built their gated fortresses behind thirty-foot security walls, guarded by private security teams and state-of-the-art surveillance systems. It was Graham Holloway's primary residence—the heart of his empire.

If I walked onto that property after he had personally threatened to ruin my life, I would be walking straight into the lion's den.

"You're crazy, Claire," I whispered to the empty, quiet apartment. "You're a freelance interpreter, not a secret agent. You don't mess with the mafia."

I picked up my phone to call my agency manager, Sarah, to report that I couldn't accept any private tutoring contracts for the Holloway estate. I dialed her number, holding the phone against my ear as it rang.

Ringing... ringing...

"Hey Claire," Sarah's voice came through the speaker, sounding exhausted over the background noise of her office. "Listen, before you say anything, I saw the email from the Grand Pacific event director. They said there was an incident with Mr. Holloway?"

I swallowed hard. "Sarah... it wasn't an incident, I just—"

"He paid our agency a fifty thousand dollar retainer twenty minutes ago, Claire," Sarah interrupted, her tone suddenly shifting from tired to hysterical excitement. "He personally requested you! He said his daughter requires a full-time, private ASL tutor starting tomorrow morning at ten! He paid your rate multiplied by five! Claire, this saves our agency from bankruptcy!"

I went completely still.

"He... he requested me?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Yes! He said you showed 'unusual initiative' at the gala," Sarah burbled, completely oblivious to the terror chilling my blood. "I already cleared your schedule! The contract is signed! Claire, you're going to Mercer Island tomorrow!"

I slowly lowered the phone from my ear as Sarah kept talking.

Graham Holloway hadn't just discovered that Maya had passed me a message.

He was pulling me into his house on purpose.

He wasn't letting me slip away into the shadows. He was bringing the threat under his own roof, where he could watch every move I made, control every word I signed, and eliminate me the moment I crossed his line.

I looked down at the cream-colored stationery sitting on my table, at Maya's jagged handwriting: