Everyone upstairs believed Lorenzo Duca was still running the mansion—until my three-year-old found him bound, bleeding, and barely conscious beneath the house.

Vincent stood at the top of the cellar stairs, framed by pantry light, his black suit immaculate except for one missing button at the cuff.

I saw it immediately.

So did he.

His eyes dropped to his sleeve.

Then to my apron pocket.

Then to Lorenzo.

A slow smile touched his mouth.

“Well,” Vincent said. “This is disappointing.”

Lorenzo tried to rise, but his ankles were still bound. Pain dragged him back into the chair.

Vincent began walking down the stairs.

No rush.

No panic.

That frightened me more than if he had charged.

Behind him stood two men I recognized from the east gate. Carlo and Niko. They wore the flat expressions of men who followed whoever looked strongest.

“Mr. Duca,” Vincent said softly, “you always did inspire loyalty in the strangest places.”

Lorenzo’s voice came out raw. “You should have killed me faster.”

Vincent clicked his tongue. “I tried. Unfortunately, your old heart is stubborn.”

Emma pressed herself against my skirt.

Vincent’s gaze slid to her.

His smile changed.

“There she is,” he said. “The little explorer.”

Lorenzo’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

“Look at me,” he said.

Vincent ignored him.

“Do you know what happens to little girls who wander where they should not?”

Emma hid her face.

I stepped in front of her before thinking.

Vincent laughed once under his breath. “Sophia. Brave now?”

I said nothing.

He looked almost amused. “Seven years in this house, and I don’t believe I’ve heard you speak above a whisper.”

“She has nothing to do with this,” Lorenzo rasped.

“No?” Vincent tilted his head. “She found you. She called Ricci. She called Marco. She removed evidence from my crime scene.” His eyes returned to me. “That makes her very involved.”

My hand closed around the pruning knife.

Vincent saw.

“Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Something slammed behind the barrels.

Everyone froze.

Vincent turned his gun toward the far wall.

For one heartbeat, I thought it was the hidden passage door closing from a draft.

Then the stone panel flew inward.

Marco Bruno came through shoulder-first like a man breaking out of a grave.

He was bigger than Vincent, broader through the chest, with a scar running from his ear to his jaw and blood on one sleeve that did not look fresh. In one hand he held a pistol. In the other, a heavy iron crowbar.

Carlo fired.

The shot exploded through the cellar.

Emma screamed.

Marco dropped low, fired twice, and Carlo went down hard against the wine racks. Bottles shattered, red wine pouring across the stone like more blood.

Niko lunged for Marco.

Lorenzo moved.

With only his hands free and ankles bound, he grabbed the loose restraint strap hanging from his left wrist and whipped it around Niko’s throat as the man passed the chair. Niko choked, stumbled, and slammed into the iron armrest.

Vincent fired at Lorenzo.

The bullet struck the chair with a metallic scream.

I grabbed Emma and fell behind a row of crates.

Biscotti shot past us like orange and white lightning.

“Down!” Marco roared.

Another gunshot.

Another crash.

Glass rained everywhere.

I curled over Emma’s tiny body, pressing her face into my apron so she would not see. Her little hands clutched my blouse with such force that one of the buttons tore loose.

“Mama,” she sobbed.

“I have you. I have you.”

The cellar filled with smoke, wine, dust, and men shouting.

Then silence broke in a terrible way.

Vincent laughed.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

When I lifted my head, Marco had his gun trained on Vincent. Lorenzo had Niko unconscious at his feet. Carlo was groaning near the racks.

Vincent stood halfway up the stairs with his pistol pressed against Dr. Ricci’s temple.

I had not even heard the doctor come in.

Dr. Enzo Ricci looked pale but steady, his medical bag still in one hand. Vincent’s arm was locked around his throat.

“Drop it, Marco,” Vincent said.

Marco did not move.

Vincent pressed the gun harder against Ricci’s head. “You know I will.”

Ricci swallowed. “He will.”

Lorenzo’s breathing was harsh. “Vincent.”

There was something in his tone that made everyone look at him.

Not pleading.

Warning.

Vincent smiled down at him. “Still giving orders from a chair?”

“You are standing in my house.”

“For now.” Vincent’s eyes gleamed. “But not for long.”

He dragged Ricci backward one step.

Then another.

Marco’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“Let him go,” Marco said.

Vincent’s smile widened. “You always were sentimental for useless men.”

Ricci’s eyes flicked toward me.

Not to Marco.

Not to Lorenzo.

To me.

Then down.

At my apron pocket.

The watch.

My heart slammed.

Vincent did not know for certain that I had it.

He suspected.

But suspicion made men reckless.

Proof made them deadly.

I lowered my hand slowly and pushed Emma behind a crate. “Stay here.”

She shook her head, crying silently.

“Emma.” I cupped her face. “Listen to Mama. You have to be very quiet.”

Her lips trembled.

“Like hiding from thunder,” I whispered.

She nodded once.

I stood with both hands visible.

Vincent saw me move.

“Ah,” he said. “There she is.”

I stepped away from the crate.

Lorenzo’s eyes cut to me. “Sophia, no.”

Vincent dragged Ricci another step up the stairs. “What’s in your pocket?”

“Nothing.”

He laughed. “You are a terrible liar.”

Marco shifted his aim.

Vincent’s gun pressed into Ricci’s skin. “Don’t.”

I slowly reached into my apron.

My fingers touched the watch.

The button.

The broken scissors.

My phone.

I pulled out the broken pink scissors first.

Vincent’s expression flickered.

Something in his face hardened at the sight of those ridiculous rabbit-ear handles.

Maybe it was the insult of it.

A three-year-old child had interrupted his perfect murder with craft scissors.

I held them up.

Vincent’s jaw tightened. “Empty the pocket.”

I pulled out the black button next.

This time, his smile disappeared.

The cellar seemed to hold its breath.

Lorenzo stared at the button.

Marco stared at Vincent’s cuff.

Ricci closed his eyes briefly, as if praying.

Vincent said nothing.

I dropped the button into my palm and lifted it higher.

“You left this,” I said.

Vincent’s eyes went flat.

“No,” he said quietly. “You found it.”

That was when I understood.

There was no pretending anymore.

No returning upstairs.

No going back to polishing silver and keeping my head down.

Vincent Romano had seen the evidence in my hand, and now he would burn the entire house before letting me leave with it.

“Give it to me,” he said.

“No.”

The word escaped before fear could stop it.

Marco’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if even he had not expected that from me.

Vincent tilted his head. “No?”

I thought of Emma sawing at Lorenzo’s restraint until her scissors broke. Three years old. Brave because no one had told her yet that bravery could get you killed.

“No,” I repeated.

Vincent smiled again.

Then he shoved Ricci down the stairs.

The doctor crashed hard onto the stone floor.

Marco fired.

Vincent vanished through the pantry door.

“Go!” Lorenzo roared.

Marco bolted after him, but Lorenzo shouted again.

“Marco! The child!”

Marco stopped like the command had struck him physically.

For one second, rage warred with duty across his scarred face.

Then he turned back.