Chapter 2

"You knew her mother was alive," I said.

Vincent stood by the window of our study back at the estate, looking out over the manicured grounds.

"Elena's presence was necessary," he said flatly. "This marriage keeps Vescari guns away from our home."

"You are forcing an eighteen-year-old girl into a mob marriage!" I set my hands flat on the mahogany desk. "She spent six months applying to colleges!"

"She is a Moretti, Emma. This marriage is the price of a truce."

"And if I try to stop it?"

Vincent turned slowly, his expression chillingly mild.

"Then you become an obstacle to this family's safety. I suggest you remember where your place is."

An hour later, I drove to the family-owned apartment on the Upper West Side where Sofia stayed during her prep school terms.

When she opened the door, she was still wearing her party dress, a glass of wine in her hand. She stopped when she saw me.

"If you're here to play the heartbroken stepmother, save it," Sofia said, walking toward the window. "I know what you did, Emma."

"What are you talking about?"

Sofia snatched a paper folder from the counter and shoved it toward me.

Inside were court injunctions from six years ago—restraining orders banning Elena Caruso from coming anywhere near Sofia's school.

My signature was at the bottom of every page.

"You told me she abandoned me," Sofia said, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. "You signed the papers that kept her away."

I stared at my handwriting, and the memory came back fast.

Six years ago, after a tinted SUV trailed Sofia’s school bus, Vincent brought those papers to my home office.

He showed me verified intelligence reports claiming a rival crew was planning to kidnap Sofia from her school gates. He begged me to sign the emergency protection orders.

I knew I was building a fence around her. I knew it named Elena as a threat.

But I was terrified of losing the girl I was raising, and I chose to believe the story that kept her safe under my roof.

"I thought you were in danger, Sofia," I whispered.

"Maybe you did love me." Sofia wiped her face hard with her sleeve.

"I don't know anymore. But you loved being my mother enough not to ask questions."

My mind raced back six years—to the night of Sofia's first middle school dance.

The invitation had explicitly stated Mothers and Daughters, and twelve-year-old Sofia had locked herself in the bathroom, sobbing because her eye makeup was smeared and she was terrified to ask if I qualified as her mother.

I had sat on the cold tile floor outside her door for an hour, holding a damp washcloth, until she finally turned the lock.

As I wiped away her mascara, she had looked at me in the mirror and asked, “If I call you Mom tonight, do I have to call you that forever?”

And I had kissed her forehead and promised, “You can call me whatever feels true. I’ll always be here.”

Sofia opened the door and stood beside it, her face set. "I need you to leave, Emma."

I walked out into the hall without a word.

Instead of going home, I drove straight to the garage behind Frankie’s house.

Vincent’s chief enforcer was sitting alone on an upturned crate, cleaning a sidearm.

He didn't look up when my headlights cut across the gravel.

“She knows about the injunctions, Frankie,” I said, stepping into the dim garage. “Vincent is forcing her into this wedding on Thursday.”

Frankie slid the magazine into his weapon with a sharp click. "I know."

"Help me stop it," I begged, stepping closer. "You know what happens to girls who marry into that family."

Frankie finally looked up. His jaw tightened.

"When Lucia was in the ICU six years ago, you sat in that hospital room so I wouldn't miss a sit-down," Frankie said, his voice low.

"I owe you, Mrs. Moretti. But I have a wife and three kids sleeping inside that house."

He stood up and holstered his gun.

"I can keep you alive if you walk away tonight," Frankie said. "Or I can help you fight Vincent. I can't do both."