Chapter 4

When Sofia's teacher had been streaming the ambush, I'd only seen the latter half.

Now, watching the full footage the soldiers had pulled from the convoy cameras, I realized my husband had been standing right there when the enforcers moved in to drag the children out.

Outside the wrecked car, Vincent was barking at the men. "Get Marco first!"

The enforcers hesitated, the photograph still in their hands. "Boss, our orders were the heir. We were told to prioritize Sofia."

My husband slammed a thick brick of cash down in front of them. "Look close. I'm the one paying you. I say Marco comes out first. If one hair on that boy is touched, you answer to me."

Rosaria pressed in from his side. "Yes, Marco's in the second-to-last row. Hurry, get my grandson out. Don't waste a breath on that useless little Vellano girl."

God help me, Vincent. Perfect. Just perfect.

I dug my nails into my palm until they bled, and I didn't even feel it. I couldn't tear my eyes off the screen.

The moment Marco was carried out safe, my husband practically glowed.

Then he caught sight of the streaming camera. As if terrified of being recognized, he turned quick and melted into the crowd.

At the time, every ounce of me had been fixed on my daughter. I never saw him and the housekeeper carry Marco into his Cadillac and drive off.

He hadn't cared whether my daughter lived or died.

The footage ended, the screen went black, and my own stunned face stared back at me from the dark glass.

A cold shiver ran through me. I grabbed my phone and pulled up the feeds from the estate.

We'd had cameras in the house for years. Out of trust in my husband, I'd never once looked at them.

"Oh my God…"

My associate covered her mouth, her whisper coming out shaken, thick with anger, drifting into my ears.

"How dare she lay a hand on Sofia."

On the screen, Rosaria was pinching my daughter's delicate skin with those iron fingers. Arms, ears, cheeks, thighs. My daughter sobbed on the floor of the great house, begging her to stop. But Rosaria didn't stop until she was satisfied.

The fine food I'd bought for my daughter went straight into Rosaria's belly, or was packed into thermos jars and carried out the door, every last spoonful. Meanwhile my daughter crouched in a corner eating cold porridge, gnawing hard crusts of bread.

"You worthless little thing. Breathe a word of this to your mother and I'll stick you with a needle, tie you to a tree, and let you starve. Understand?"

"I-I understand… I won't tell Mama…"

"All you know how to do is cry. Shut your mouth, you wretched girl."

Watching my daughter shrink into the shadows like a quail, afraid to make a sound in her own home, my chest turned to a furnace. Every breath came out sparking.

And that wasn't all. Rosaria had been lifting my expensive clothes, my cosmetics, my daughter's toys, the household things, anything not nailed down. Folding a dish towel into neat little squares as she smiled at the camera she didn't know was watching.

Yet none of the stolen goods cut me the way the rest of it did.

What broke me was my husband. There was one moment, plain on the tape, where he saw Rosaria beating our daughter with a broom handle and did not step in to protect her. He only knotted his brow and said, "Go make dinner. Look at the hour."

Then he walked past my daughter's tear-streaked, pleading eyes and climbed the stairs alone.

I met Vincent when we were young, before the Family's weight ever settled on either of us. He was handsome, charming, a boy who gave himself over to me completely.

One autumn, out on the road, our bus went over and hung against a tree at the lip of a cliff.

He risked the fall to save me, using his own body as a brace to shove me clear of the wreck.

At the instant the whole thing was about to plunge off the edge, the men reached us and hauled him back from the drop.

He'd been covered in blood, and still he held me tight. "Adriana, I've got nothing, but I'll love you with my life, till the day I die."

That vow had burned itself into my heart. It still rang in my ears.

I never imagined a person's heart could turn like this. Perhaps he was no longer the man who once loved me and our daughter with his whole life.

But then I told myself Rosaria was half of Vincent's blood, the woman who raised him, and when her grandson was in danger it was only natural his nerve broke. Maybe that was why he couldn't bring himself to check her when she went at our daughter.

I didn't want to believe my husband was truly that cruel.

"Donna, I'll go now."

After my associate slipped out, I remembered some papers left in the car and walked down to the garage. The place was silent except for the tick of a cooling engine.

I opened the door and reached for the documents on the seat. Then my eye caught something beneath the front passenger seat. I went very still, bent down, and drew out a sheer black stocking.

My blood ran cold.

I forced the surge down, pushed the stocking back where it lay, and called Vincent.

"Amore, our daughter's burning with fever and she's asking for you. Can you come home and sit with her?"

Vincent's voice came back troubled. "Cara, you know how important this contact is. If I don't handle Ferraro right tonight, the Family stands to lose millions on the deal. The moment I'm through, I'll come straight home to her. It's late. Just get her down to sleep for now."

A faint moan drifted across the line, and he hung up in a rush. I nearly crushed the phone in my hand.

Vincent. I gave you a chance.

Jaw tight, I dialed another number. "You wanted the Harlington rackets, didn't you, Lorenzo? Starting next week, they're yours to run."