Emma tilted her head, her round hazel eyes examining Dominic Moretti from head to toe. Her tiny fingers clutched the faded ear of her gray stuffed rabbit, Mr. Hops.

Guards patrolled the iron gates in rotating shifts, heavy-duty security cameras were installed along the perimeter, and reports filtered in from Chicago indicating that Salvatore Romano was mobilizing his enforcers.

Up on the second floor, however, life was remarkably peaceful for Sophia and Emma.

The guest suite was larger than Sophia’s entire apartment in Yonkers, featuring silk-draped windows overlooking the river, a plush king-sized bed, and a private bathroom lined with green marble. Mrs. Costa had even brought up a box of brand-new toys for Emma, who was currently busy building a massive castle out of wooden blocks on the Persian rug.

Sophia sat by the window, staring at a faded photograph of her late husband, James.

“If someone dangerous comes looking for me, do you know how to disappear?”

James’s words haunted her every waking hour. Why had he asked her that? What did he know about Atlantic Meridian?

Deciding she needed fresh air, Sophia tucked her hair behind her ears and stepped out into the third-floor hallway while Emma was napping. She had been strictly warned by Mrs. Costa on her first day: “Never open the black door at the end of the third-floor hallway.”

Curiosity, combined with a gnawing sense of impending doom, pulled her feet forward.

The third-floor hallway was darker than the rest of the mansion. The antique wall sconces cast long, flickering shadows over the dark wood panelling. At the very end of the corridor stood a heavy, matte-black steel door, fitted with a digital keypad and a biometric scanner.

Sophia stopped in front of it. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She reached out, her fingertips hovering inches from the cold metal.

Click.

The door didn't open—instead, a soft electronic chime sounded, and the heavy bolt slid back.

Sophia gasped, stumbling backward.

The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a room bathed in the blue glow of a dozen computer monitors.

"Looking for something, Mrs. Bennett?"

Sophia shrieked, whirling around.

Dominic Moretti stood ten feet away, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing lean, muscular forearms corded with faint, old scars. His dark eyes were fixed on her, completely unreadable.

"Mr. Moretti!" Sophia breathed, pressing her back against the black door frame. "I—I was looking for the linen closet, I took a wrong turn, I swear—"

Dominic pushed off the wall and walked slowly toward her. He didn't look angry. If anything, he looked intensely curious.

"There are no linens on the third floor, Sophia," he said, using her first name for the very first time.

He stepped past her into the glowing blue room. On the screens were scrolling financial ledgers, satellite maps of New York harbors, and, in the center screen, a high-resolution photograph of a man Sophia recognized instantly.