The night my mafia boss covered his Boston mansion with hidden cameras to catch a thief, he expected to see someone stealing from him. Instead, he saw me barefoot in his drawing room, wearing nothing but his oversized white dress shirt, sliding across the polished floor and singing into a wooden spoon like I’d completely lost my mind.

By midday, the atmosphere in the mansion felt tighter than a coiled spring.

I spent the morning scrubbing the kitchen tiles until my knees ached, trying to scrub away the memory of the white card. Every time I heard footsteps in the hallway, I expected Martin Doyle, the security chief, to march in and haul me away.

Martin was a man built out of gray wool and cold granite. He had worked for Julian’s father before him, a silent, watchful shadow who knew every dark corner of the Corsini empire.

Around two o'clock, Martin walked into the kitchen. He didn't smile. He never smiled. He dropped a heavy manila folder onto the stainless-steel prep table.

“You’re cleaning the second-floor gallery this afternoon,” Martin said, his voice like grinding gravel.

“Yes, Martin. I was planning on it after lunch.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me. “The boss watched the footage from the other night.”

My stomach dropped into my shoes. I gripped the edge of the sponge tightly. “He... he mentioned it.”

“He doesn't usually mention things like that,” Martin said slowly, leaning his weight against the counter. “Julian Corsini doesn't watch people dance. He watches people move when they’re lying to him. He watches people reach for weapons. He watches doors, windows, and blind spots. The fact that he spent four minutes and eleven seconds watching a twenty-eight-year-old housekeeper play pop star in his drawing room means one of two things.”

I swallowed hard. “And what are those?”

“Either he’s losing his edge,” Martin said, his gray eyes piercing straight through me, “or he thinks you’re connected to the person who’s been stealing his trash.”

“I’m not connected to anyone!” I protested, my voice rising defensively. “I barely leave this property except to buy groceries or pay my student loan interest online! I didn't steal your stupid train ticket or your tie clip!”

“Nobody said anything about a tie clip, Sadie,” Martin murmured, his gaze sharpening.

I froze. My cheeks burned. Idiot. Julian mentioned the cameras, but he hadn't mentioned what was stolen to me.

Martin watched my reaction with cold, professional satisfaction. “The cook talks too much. Or maybe you have sharper ears than you let on. Either way, someone’s been slipping past our perimeter locks without tripping the alarms. They took a matchbook from the Black Dog Grill last night while you were soaking your uniform in the basement.”

“The Black Dog Grill?” I repeated, frowning. “That place burned down in 2003.”

“Exactly,” Martin said, pushing off the counter. “It burned down the night Julian’s older brother disappeared. Nothing of monetary value. Just junk. But whoever is taking it is leaving messages.”