The boss didn't blink. He reached out, his ink-stained fingers brushing the loose strands of hair away from my forehead, his touch terrifyingly gentle yet completely immovable. "A ghost doesn't know her own reflection, maybe," he murmured, his breath hot against my temple. "Look at the corner of your left eye. The faint crescent scar. My wife got it falling off a horse in Sicily when she was twelve. You have it, too. Down to the millimeter."

Marco’s voice crackled through the speaker, breathless and urgent. "Boss! Miss Mara! We have an unscheduled vehicle approaching the main gate. They aren't trying to breach; they're just sitting there, flashing their lights."

"Who is it?" Dante demanded, striding toward the vault's intercom console.

"Just one car, Boss. A black town car. And... well, you better look at the external security feed on channel four."

Dante switched the monitor to the front gate camera.

The image flickered, showing a sleek, black Mercedes idling outside the heavy wrought-iron gates. The passenger-side door opened, and a young woman stepped out into the sunlight.

My heart stopped dead in my chest.

She wore a long charcoal coat, her dark hair falling past her shoulders in loose waves. When she turned to look directly at the security camera, I felt like I was looking into a mirror warped by time. She had the exact same dark eyes, the same sharp cheekbones, and—when a brief smile touched her lips—the exact same dimple at the left corner of her mouth.