Gabriel Romano did not look like a man who walked alone into the servant quarters of his own properties. In Milwaukee, people whispered that his shadow alone could foreclose a business or buy a politician before breakfast. Yet here he stood in the falling February snow, his black wool coat unbuttoned at the collar, staring past Evelyn at a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound Cane Corso currently claiming her threadbare hearth rug as his personal estate.

By nine o'clock, Rosa—the house manager whose tight gray bun and iron-gray skirts had survived three different Romano patriarchs—had personally supervised the transfer of Evelyn’s two cardboard boxes and single plastic suitcase. She hadn't said a single word during the process, but as she laid out three sets of heavy flannel sheets across the four-poster iron bed, her hands lingered on the dark wood of the headboard.

"The master doesn't put people up here," Rosa said quietly, her back to Evelyn.

"He said the guest wing was vacant."

"The guest wing is on the second floor, overlooking the formal gardens." Rosa turned around, her sharp, lined face pale under the electric sconces. "This is the old tower. It hasn't been used since Gabriel’s uncle—old Stefano—disappeared during the dock strike in ninety-eight."

Evelyn paused while unpacking her socks. "Disappeared?"

"Left his car by the harbor with the engine running and his wallet on the dash. Some say he went to Sicily. Some say he went into the foundations of the south wing." Rosa walked toward the heavy oak door, her keys jingle-jangling like small bones. She stopped on the threshold and looked back. "Mr. Romano does not like people who ask questions, Miss Hart. But he likes people who notice things even less. Keep your eyes on the silver polish."

The door clicked shut, leaving behind a heavy, oiled silence.

Evelyn didn't sleep. The wind off Lake Geneva howled around the stone battlements, creating a low, rhythmic vibration that felt less like weather and more like machinery running deep underground.

Around midnight, a heavy thump shook the floorboards outside her door.

Evelyn sat up, pulling the wool blanket to her collarbones. The old floorboards groaned. Two long, heavy breaths puffed under the gap in the door, followed by the unmistakable sound of a massive tail thumping rhythmically against the Persian runner.

Titan.

She got out of bed, her bare feet touching the cold oak, and turned the heavy brass handle.

The hallway was pitch black, lit only by the pale blue glare of snow reflecting through the high lancet windows. Titan lay sprawled directly across her mat, his black coat rising and falling in slow, steady waves. But he wasn't looking at the stairs. His ears were swiveled backward, flat against his skull, listening to something coming from behind the wainscoting near the base of the turret stairs.

A metallic scrape. Like a coin sliding across concrete. Then, very faintly, a low, mechanical hum that sounded like a hydraulic lift operating far below the cellar floor.

"What is it, big guy?" Evelyn whispered.

Titan didn't growl. He simply reached out one massive, heavy paw and placed it directly over the top of her slippered foot, anchoring her to the floor with an immovable, terrifying weight.

From the shadows at the far end of the corridor, a pair of shoes stepped out from the spiral staircase.

It wasn't Gabriel. It was Victor Sloane.

The chief lieutenant wore no coat, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, dark ropes of muscle and an ugly burn scar that wrapped around his left wrist like a bracelet. In his right hand, he carried something long and narrow wrapped in an oily gray canvas.

"You're up late, maid," Victor said, his voice dropping into a flat, unhurried register that sent a shiver straight down Evelyn’s spine.

"The wind is loud," she said, not moving her foot from beneath Titan’s paw.

Victor stopped ten feet away. His eyes didn't look at her face; they tracked down to the dog, then over the heavy canvas package in his hand, then back to Evelyn with a cold, analytical curiosity.

"The boss has a habit of collecting strays," Victor murmured, taking another step forward. "Dogs. Broken furniture. Girls from the county registry with missing references."

"I have references," Evelyn lied smoothly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Do you?" Victor smiled, but his eyes remained dead, flat glass. "We checked the address in Chicago where you worked last fall. The flower shop burned down three days after you gave notice. The owner moved to Arizona and forgot to leave a forwarding number."

"Insurance fraud isn't my department," Evelyn said, her chin lifting despite the cold sweat breaking out across her shoulders.

Victor’s smile vanished. He took another step, but before he could close the distance, Titan let out a single, subterranean rumble—not a bark, but a vibration that made the glass in the lancet windows rattle in their lead frames. The dog didn't stand up, but his massive shoulders bunched, and his lips curled back just enough to show four inches of white, triangular ivory.

Victor stopped. His gaze shifted from Evelyn to the dog’s scarred flank, then down to the floorboards where the faint metallic hum was growing slightly louder.

"The beast has good instincts," Victor said softly, shifting the canvas package in his grip. "Too bad he doesn't know when to let go."

He turned on his heel and walked back toward the spiral stairs, his leather-soled shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone until the door at the bottom slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.