Chapter 2

The alarm is sharp, relentless—three fast beeps over and over.

My blood runs cold.

This GPS bracelet is custom-made. I had three of them built—one for me, one for Colin, one for Rosie.

It's designed for one thing only: emergencies. I told Rosie a long time ago—if you're ever scared, if anything bad happens, press the button. Mommy will come.

But Rosie is in the car. She's on her way home. Marco is with her. What could possibly—

I pull up the GPS tracker. The dot blinks on the screen.

She's at the house.

She's already home.

So why is she hitting the panic button?

I don't think. I just react.

"Turn around!" I shout at the driver. "Take me home. Now."

I start calling the house. One by one.

Nobody picks up.

Finally, Maria—the head maid who's been with me for six years—answers from her personal phone.

"Mrs. Devlin, we were all let go. Tessa showed up at six this morning with four men we'd never seen before. She said the Don ordered a full staff replacement. Told us if we didn't leave quietly, things would get ugly."

"She handed out cash—three months' pay each—and had us escorted off. We didn't even get to pack our things."

"She said the Don authorized it. That all household staff needed to be re-screened by her personally. We tried calling you, but our numbers had already been blocked."

"She said WHAT?"

I hang up.

My whole body goes cold.

Every single person in that house—every maid, every guard, every face my daughter knows and trusts—gone. Replaced overnight. Without anyone asking me.

"Tessa Nolan, you're a dead woman," I whisper.

Then I think about Rosie's bracelet. My baby is in that house with strangers, and she's calling for help.

"Turn around! My daughter's in trouble. Step on it!"

The house feels wrong the second we pull through the gate. The gate guards are faces I've never seen. The familiar staff are all gone.

Instead, there are a few young women in the foyer—mid-twenties, dressed like they're going to brunch, not running the household of a Don. Not one of them even asks who I am. They just stare.

When my father was alive, a stranger couldn't get within a mile of this house without clearance. Now they're standing in my foyer like they own the place.

I don't stop. I run past all of them.

I'll deal with every last one of them later.

"Rosie! ROSIE!"

I find her in the dining room.

My daughter is on the floor. Curled up in a ball. Shaking. Her lips are purple. Angry red welts cover her face and arms.

Allergic reaction. A bad one.

My eyes snap to the table. A plate of noodles tossed with crushed peanuts sits in the center.

My vision goes white.

Rosie is deathly allergic to peanuts. Any trace—peanut oil, peanut butter, a single crushed shell—sends her body into overdrive. Mild exposure means fever and hives. Serious exposure means her throat swells shut. It means she stops breathing.

It means she can die.

And this woman made her eat peanuts.

Tessa is standing right there, arms crossed, looking down at my daughter like she's being dramatic. She nudges Rosie with her foot.

"Stop faking it, you little brat. I cooked this meal myself and you won't eat it? I'm not your pushover mother. You eat what I give you. Now get up."

Something snaps inside me.

I cross the room in three steps and my fist connects with Tessa's face so hard she staggers back into the wall.

"Touch my daughter again and I'll kill you myself."

I'm already pulling out my phone, dialing 911, scooping Rosie off the floor with one arm. She's burning up. She's barely breathing. Her little body is limp against my chest.

But Tessa—her nose bleeding, her eyes wild—throws herself in front of the door.

"Are you insane?! I am a professional childcare consultant! Your husband hired me! He said every decision about this child goes through ME. Put her down. Right now."

She wipes the blood from her lip and takes a step closer.

"And you just hit me. You'd better believe Colin is going to hear about this. You owe me an apology."

I look at her. I look at my daughter's face—swollen, purple, twisted in pain.

I kick Tessa out of my way. Hard.

"You want an apology? Here's your apology. If my daughter dies, I will bury you and Colin both. Now get out of my way."

Rosie is limp in my arms. Her lips are turning blue.