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.

By midnight, the manor was cloaked in rain. A violent Midwestern storm swept over Lake Michigan, driving torrential sheets against the bulletproof glass of Luca’s study. Thunder rattled the antique chandeliers, sending shivers through the dark wood paneling.

Inside the compound, every light was extinguished except for the green banker's lamp resting on the mahogany desk. Outside, fifty armed guards stood invisible in the tree lines, night-vision goggles strapped to their helmets, assault rifles held across their chests. The estate had become a fortress awaiting a siege.

I sat on the velvet chaise lounge near the unlit hearth, Barnaby’s enormous head resting heavily on my lap. The old dog's breathing was slow, deep, and rhythmic. He knew something was wrong. Dogs have a sixth sense for impending violence, and Barnaby had spent twelve years surviving the bloody feuds of the Moretti dynasty. He refused to leave my side, his dark eyes tracking every movement Luca made.

Luca hadn't sat down in six hours. He paced from the window to the wall, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, a glass of untouched bourbon sweating on the desk. On the wall hung an antique map of Chicago, pinned with red ribbons that mapped out the territories Clara’s enforcers could potentially strike.

"She won't hit our warehouses," Luca said suddenly, his voice cutting through the drumming rain. "She won't attack the docks, and she won't try to ambush a convoy. That’s how New York operates. That’s how petty street soldiers fight."

I brushed my fingers through Barnaby’s velvet ears. "How does she fight, Luca?"

He stopped in front of the map, his gaze locked onto a small, isolated circle northwest of the city. Lake Forest.

"She fights through ghosts," he answered quietly. "She will go to where it began. She will want to see if the ashes still smell of her childhood."

I stood up, gently disengaging Barnaby, who rose instantly to his feet, stretching his stiff old legs. "Then that's where we go."

"No," Luca snapped, his voice sharp as a razor. "You stay here. Behind three rings of armed men. Behind reinforced steel. You are my wife, Emma. If she wants to hurt me, you are the single target that would bring me to my knees."

I walked across the room until I stood toe-to-toe with him. I was smaller than him, half his weight, but I did not back down. A year ago, I had walked into this very house with red, scrub-chapped hands and downcast eyes. But I was not that timid maid anymore. I had stood before his enemies, I had held his family together, and I had earned the ring on my finger.

"I am not hiding in a gilded cage while you walk into an ambush, Luca Moretti," I said, my voice unwavering. "If this woman is your sister, she has been trained to hate a monster. If you go alone with a squad of hitmen, you confirm everything she believes about you. But if she sees that you have a heart—that you have a home, that you loved the memory of her enough to forgive—she might listen before the shooting starts."

Luca looked down at me, his eyes burning with conflicting currents of fierce protection and desperate, agonizing love. He reached up, his rough, calloused palm cupping my cheek.

"I cannot lose you, Emma. If anything happens to you, the man you love dies anyway. There will be nothing left of me but the executioner."

"Nothing will happen to me," I whispered, resting my hand over his. "Because Barnaby is coming with us."

Luca let out a hollow, incredulous laugh, but as he looked down at the old mastiff, who stood watching us with unwavering loyalty, the humor faded. Barnaby had been a puppy when Clara was taken. If anyone in this world carried the scent of Clara’s forgotten youth, it was the dog that had once slept at the foot of her crib.

Forty minutes later, a convoy of three armored black SUVs rolled out of the estate’s iron gates, cutting through the deluge of rain. Luca, Daniel, Barnaby, and I occupied the center vehicle. The drive north along the shoreline was silent, save for the wipers slapping against the windshield and the distant rumble of thunder.

The Lake Forest estate was nothing more than a graveyard of stone and blackened brick. Destroyed over two decades ago, Luca had bought the surrounding fifty acres of land to ensure that no developer could ever build over the spot where his mother died. The charred skeleton of the manor stood against the stormy sky like the ribcage of an ancient, slain beast, overgrown with wild ivy and choked by creeping thorns.

The headlights cut through the downpour, illuminating the grand, decaying archway of the front entrance.

"Wait here," Luca commanded Daniel as the car came to a stop.

"Boss, it’s suicide to enter without sweeping the perimeter," Daniel warned, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. "Thermal scopes can't see through the dense masonry in this rain."

"If she wanted to blow the car up, we’d already be dead," Luca replied flatly. "Stay by the doors. If you hear gunfire, level the ruins."

Luca stepped out into the rain, opening the rear door for me and Barnaby. The cold air struck us immediately, carrying the sharp scent of wet ash, decaying pine needles, and ozone. Barnaby’s paws hit the muddy gravel, and immediately, the old dog’s demeanor transformed.

His head snapped up. His nostrils flared, drawing in the wet air with deep, frantic snorts. He didn't limp; he didn't stumble. The stiffness that had plagued his old joints seemed to evaporate under the surge of pure instinct.

"Barnaby, heel," Luca commanded softly, but for the first time in years, the dog didn't obey immediately. He trotted forward through the broken stone portico, leading us into the heart of the ruins.

The roof had collapsed decades ago, leaving the grand foyer open to the weeping sky. We walked through pools of black rainwater, our flashlights sweeping over charred oak pillars and moss-covered marble. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in a tomb.

Barnaby led us toward the rear of the foyer, where the remnants of the grand dual staircase used to rise. He stopped at the base of a cracked stone pedestal where a marble statue of an angel had long since fallen and shattered.

The old dog began to whine—a high-pitched, vibrating sound of absolute confusion and longing. He scratched at the wet debris near the base of the pedestal.

Luca stepped forward, shining his heavy tactical light onto the ground.

Lying in the center of the blackened dirt, shielded from the rain by an overhanging slab of charred granite, was an object that didn't belong in a ruin.

It was an antique silver locket, polished to a brilliant, mirror-like sheen. Tied to it was a fresh white orchid, completely untouched by the mud, its petals glistening with fresh drops of water.

Luca knelt in the dirt, the rain soaking through his wool coat, his hands trembling as he picked up the locket.

With a click, the silver casing popped open under his thumb.

Inside was a miniature photograph of Luca at ten years old, holding an infant girl wrapped in a pink blanket. Across the opposing side, scratched into the silver with the tip of a blade, were three words:

*YOU FORGOT ME.*

Before Luca could breathe, Barnaby spun around, letting out a sharp, booming bark that echoed off the hollow stone walls.

From the dark upper terrace overlooking the ruined ballroom, a voice drifted down through the rain—silky, smooth, and laced with an icy Sicilian cadence: