“TAKE THAT COAT OFF MY DAUGHTER, YOU FILTHY MAID!” THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE SCREAMED—BUT WHEN HE SAW THE THREE BLUE STITCHES I HAD SEWN INSIDE THE

Life on the Italian coast had become a sanctuary of peace. The chaos of New York, the shadow of Vincenzo Moretti, and the betrayal of Victoria felt like a lifetime ago. We spent our days walking the sandy beaches, cooking huge dinners, and listening to Sophie’s laughter fill the airy beach house.

I was no longer the maid. Dominic and Isabella had insisted I stay as part of the family, an honorary aunt to Sophie. For a woman who had spent decades scrubbing other people’s floors, the sudden transition to a life of quiet respect and love was overwhelming.

But peace, I was learning, is a fragile thing.

It was a Tuesday morning when the mail arrived.

I walked down the long gravel driveway to the rusted metal mailbox at the edge of the property. Inside were the usual items: local flyers, a utility bill, and a thick manila envelope.

I pulled the envelope out. It was heavy, sealed with thick red wax.

There was no return address. Just a single name written in elegant, looping cursive across the front: Rebecca Hayes.

My blood ran cold. Nobody outside of the FBI task force knew we were here under assumed names. And absolutely no one in Italy knew my real name.

I hurried back to the house, my heart hammering against my ribs. Dominic was on the back deck, sanding down a piece of driftwood he was turning into a lamp for Sophie’s room.

“Dominic,” I said, my voice tight.

He looked up, wiping sawdust from his forehead. His relaxed smile vanished the second he saw my face. He put down the sandpaper and walked over.

“What is it, Rebecca?”

I handed him the envelope. He stared at the red wax seal. It wasn't just a random blob of wax. It was stamped with a very specific insignia—a two-headed eagle clutching a dagger.

Dominic’s jaw tightened. “The Romanov syndicate,” he murmured. “My father’s oldest rivals in New York.”

“Why are they sending mail to me?” I asked, panic rising in my throat.

Dominic broke the seal and pulled out the contents. It was a single sheet of heavy parchment paper and a small, rectangular object wrapped in velvet.

He unfolded the paper. I read it over his shoulder.

Dear Miss Hayes,

We applaud your bravery in dismantling Vincenzo Moretti’s empire. However, your actions created a power vacuum in the city. Nature abhors a vacuum. And so do we.

Vincenzo owed us a very specific debt before you so rudely arranged his incarceration. A debt of five million dollars, or blood.

Since Vincenzo is unavailable, the debt falls to his heir. We know where you are. We know the routines of the little girl. Enclosed is a token of our sincerity. You have 72 hours to wire the funds to the offshore account provided. Do not disappoint us.

Dominic’s hands trembled with fury. He unrolled the velvet cloth.

Inside was a silver thimble.

Not just any thimble. It was the antique silver thimble my grandmother had given me—the one I kept in my sewing kit. The one I had used to repair Sophie’s coat back at the mansion in New York. I had left it behind in my rush to pack our bags that night.

They had been in the mansion. They had found my things.

“Dominic,” Isabella said, stepping out onto the deck. She froze when she saw the look on our faces. “What’s wrong?”

Dominic quickly crumpled the letter and shoved it into his pocket, but not before Isabella saw the wax seal on the torn envelope.

Her face went pale. “They found us.”

“Pack the bags,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into that cold, commanding tone he hadn't used since the night in the snow. “Get Sophie from her room. We leave in ten minutes.”

But before Isabella could move, a loud, sharp knocking echoed from the heavy oak front door of the beach house.

We all froze.

We didn't get visitors. Ever.

Dominic slowly reached toward the small of his back, drawing the compact pistol he swore he would never carry again. He gestured for Isabella and me to stay back, and he walked silently down the hallway toward the door.

He checked the peephole.

His shoulders immediately dropped in confusion. He lowered the gun and unlocked the door, pulling it open.

Standing on the porch wasn't a Russian hitman.

It was a woman in a sharp gray business suit, holding a leather briefcase.

“Mr. Moretti,” she said crisply. “My name is Agent Foster. FBI.”

“I’m already cooperating,” Dominic said cautiously.