“Shh. Don’t talk, Uncle Lorenzo.”

Mia’s tiny hand wrapped around one of my fingers.

I looked down at her.

Three years old.

Red skirt.

White тιԍнтs.

One sock twisted halfway around her ankle.

A stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm.

And an expression far too serious for a child her age.

“Why are we whispering?”

She pressed one finger against her lips.

“Because bad lady hears.”

That was how I found myself creeping through my own mansion behind a toddler.

My name is Lorenzo Duca.

Thirty-nine years old.

Owner of Duca Maritime, Duca Construction, four restaurants, two private security firms, and enough businesses that newspapers politely called me an “industrialist.”

Men who knew the truth used another тιтle.

Boss.

The Duca family had controlled pieces of Boston’s waterfront for three generations.

People crossed streets to avoid inconveniencing me.

Men twice my age waited before sitting until I did.

Yet that afternoon, Mia dragged me upstairs by one finger as if I were a badly trained dog.

She stopped outside my fiancée’s bedroom.

Vivien’s bedroom.

The door stood slightly open.

Mia pointed.

Then crouched.

I followed.

Inside, Elena Hayes stood beside the dressing table clutching folded towels.

Elena had worked in my house for seven months.

Twenty-nine.

Dark hair usually tied at the nape of her neck.

Quiet.

Capable.

Almost painfully polite.

And unlike most people in the mansion, she never stared at the tattoos across my hands or avoided looking me in the eyes.

Mia was her daughter.

Vivien faced her.

My Vivien.

The woman whose engagement ring cost more than Elena probably earned in ten years.

The woman I intended to marry in six weeks.

“You’ll speak to Lorenzo tonight,” Vivien said.

Her voice sounded completely different when she believed I wasn’t listening.

Cold.

Flat.

“You’ll tell him his mother approves of me.”

Elena swallowed.

“I can’t.”

Vivien’s eyes narrowed.

“Can’t?”

“I won’t lie to him.”

My jaw тιԍнтened.

My mother, Bianca Duca, had been recovering from a stroke for six months.

She spoke rarely.

Vivien had repeatedly told me Mother adored her.

Apparently, Elena knew otherwise.

Vivien stepped closer.

“You’re forgetting your position.”

“No.”

Elena’s voice trembled, but she remained standing.

“I know exactly what my position is.”

“Then understand how easily it can disappear.”

Silence.

“You leave this house without a reference, nobody in this city hires you.”

Elena looked down.

Mia pressed closer against me.

Then Vivien said:

“And Mia…”

Every muscle in my body locked.

Elena’s face changed instantly.

“Leave my daughter out of this.”

Vivien smiled.

“Children wander.”

Her voice became almost gentle.

“Gates get left open.”

My hand curled against the floor.

“Cameras fail.”

Mia’s little fingers тιԍнтened around mine.

“Terrible things happen.”

Something inside me became very still.

Not angry.

Anger was H๏τ.

This was colder.

Elena whispered:

“If you ever threaten my daughter again—”

“What?”

Vivien laughed softly.

“You’ll do what?”

Elena had no answer.

Because Vivien understood the difference between them.

Money.

Power.

Name.

Elena had none.

Vivien had spent three months teaching her that.

Three months.

I knew because when I carried Mia into my study afterward and asked how long the “bad lady” had frightened Mommy, Mia raised three fingers.

“Three days?”

No.

“Three weeks?”

No.

She pressed three tiny fingers against my chest.

“Three months?”

Mia nodded.

Then leaned into me.

I held her.

Carefully.

I had never been comfortable around children.

Mia had apparently decided this was irrelevant.

I reached for my telephone.

“Rocco.”

My oldest lieutenant answered immediately.

“Boss.”

“My study. Now.”

He arrived four minutes later.

Six-foot-two.

Gray beginning at his temples.

Thirty years of loyalty between our families.

He saw Mia sitting on my desk eating one of the chocolates my mother kept hidden in the drawer.

Then he saw my face.

“What happened?”

“I want everything.”

“About?”

“Vivien.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Everything?”

“Visitors. Calls. Bank records. Employees she requested. Contractors. Drivers. Jewelry purchases. Messages.”

I paused.

“And every time she has been alone with Elena or Mia during the last four months.”

Rocco looked toward Mia.

He understood.

“Quietly?”

“Very.”

That evening Vivien descended the staircase wearing pale green silk.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Perfect.

She smiled at me.

I smiled back.

She offered her hand.

I kissed it.

“You look tired, darling.”

“Long day.”

She touched my face.

I almost recoiled.

Instead, I kissed her cheek.

Because Vivien had made one mistake.

She thought the most dangerous person in the Duca mansion was the man sitting at the head of the table.

It wasn’t.

It was a three-year-old girl who knew exactly where to bring him when her mother was afraid.

And Vivien had just given that child a secret.

Now I intended to find out every secret Vivien had been keeping from me.