Lorenzo DeLuca’s massive frame cast a long, intimidating shadow down the dim, marble corridor of the West Wing. He was barefoot, wearing black trousers and an unbuttoned white dress shirt, his eyes sharp and burning with exhaustion.

Sophia froze in the doorway, her hands flying to her mouth, her heart dropping straight into her stomach.

"Mr. DeLuca!" Sophia gasped, her voice trembling violently. "I am so sorry—she must have slipped out while I was asleep! Please don't fire us, I'll take her right back downstairs—"

"Quiet, Sophia," Lorenzo commanded softly. His voice wasn't filled with rage, but with a quiet, terrifying seriousness that made the air in the hallway turn ice-cold.

He set Emma down gently on the plush runner rug. The little girl didn't run to her mother. Instead, she reached into the small front pocket of her pajama overalls and pulled out her hand, extending her tiny fingers toward Lorenzo.

Resting in her palm was a tiny, clear plastic packet containing a fine, odorless grey powder.

"Vivian put it," Emma said in her sweet, innocent voice, pointing one tiny finger toward the staircase leading to Lucas’s room. "Under Lucas’s head. With the new pillow."

Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. "Emma... sweetie, what are you talking about?"

Lorenzo didn't speak. He reached down with a gloved hand—a leather glove he had pulled from his pocket—and picked up the packet. He held it up to the warm amber wall light, his eyes narrowing into cold obsidian slits.

"Where did you get this, little one?" Lorenzo asked softly, kneeling down on one knee so he was eye-level with the toddler.

"Doll snagged," Emma explained, mimicking a pulling motion with her small hands. "Pillow seam opened. Slipped out. Vivian makes Lucas’s tummy hurt with the green drinks. When he sleeps on the other pillow, he feels better."

Lorenzo’s jaw clenched so hard the jawline muscles strained against his skin. For six months, his six-year-old son, Lucas—the sole heir to the DeLuca Syndicate—had been wasting away from an unknown neurological illness. Top specialists from London, Zurich, and Johns Hopkins had been flown in on private jets. None of them could find a toxin in his blood. None of them could explain his organ failure.

Because no doctor had checked the physical environment beneath his head.

"Marco!" Lorenzo barked, his voice echoing through the vast estate like a thunderclap.

Within five seconds, Marco—Lorenzo’s chief of security—appeared at the end of the hall, his hand resting on the holster beneath his suit jacket.

"Boss?"

Lorenzo held up the plastic packet. "Take this to the private lab in the basement right now. I want a chemical analysis in ten minutes. And Marco..." Lorenzo’s eyes flashed with a lethal, terrifying light. "Secure Vivian in her quarters. Do not let her touch a phone, a drink, or a door."

"Understood, Don Lorenzo."

Sophia grabbed Emma, pulling her daughter tight against her chest, her body shivering. "Mr. DeLuca... Vivian is Lucas’s primary nurse! She was hired by your late wife’s family!"