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Elena Russo's black dress felt like a suit of armor as she stood alone in her childhood home, surrounded by empty glasses and half-eaten appetizers, evidence of mourners who had already departed. The silence pressed against her eardrums, almost painful after hours of murmured condolences and stories about her father that painted a man she barely recognized. The crystal tumbler in her hand caught the afternoon light, sending prisms dancing across the worn hardwood floor as she swirled the amber liquid. Her father's favorite whiskey. She'd never acquired the taste, but today seemed like the perfect time to try. "To you, Papa," she whispered, lifting the glass toward the mantle where his photograph stood beside the urn containing his ashes. The burn of alcohol down her throat matched the sting behind her eyes. For the hundredth time that day, Elena wondered how her strong, vibrant father had deteriorated so quickly. Cancer was a thief, stealing him piece by piece until nothing remained but a hollow shell, and now, not even that. The doorbell's chime shattered her moment of grief. Probably Mrs. Gianelli from next door, bringing another casserole she wouldn't eat. Elena set down the tumbler and smoothed her dress, mentally preparing another gracious smile for another well-meaning neighbor. The men at her door were not neighbors. Three of them, dressed in tailored black