The red ink seemed to throb beneath the harsh fluorescent bulb of my kitchen.

Leo, Luca, and Lily were fast asleep in the sprawling, gilded nursery down the hall. For the first time in fourteen months, they hadn't cried when the lights were turned down. They had fallen asleep with their tiny fingers wrapped around my hair, lulled by the soft lullaby I used to hum to my empty apartment.

I stepped out of the nursery, softly clicking the door shut.

In the main living room, Roman stood near the marble bar, pouring two fingers of dark amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, muscular wrists.

He looked up as I approached. He pushed a second glass across the counter toward me.

"They're asleep?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yes," I said, ignoring the whiskey. "They slept the moment I laid down beside them."

Roman took a slow sip, staring into the dark amber liquid. "They never slept for Alessandra. Not once. She used to hire three night nurses because she couldn't stand the sound of their crying."

A sharp spike of rage flared in my chest. "Because they knew she wasn't their mother. Children aren't stupid, Roman. They know who carried them."

Roman lowered his glass, looking at me with a complex mix of sorrow and profound guilt. "I should have seen it. I was so consumed with managing the shipping empire, so focused on keeping the Vance family from seizing our board seats, that I didn't look close enough at the adoption papers. I believed my wife when she told me she found an anonymous donor."

"You wanted to believe her," I said coldly. "It was easier to believe a lie than to see the horror right in front of you."

"You're right," Roman admitted, not offering a single defense. "I failed them. And I failed you. If I could tear down time and rewrite those fourteen months, Pamela, I would. But right now, we have a war to win."

I pulled out the tiny wooden picture frame I had brought with me from my apartment—the frame holding my unborn triplets’ ultrasound.

Roman frowned. "What is that?"

"Before Dr. Mercer was murdered on the phone with me tonight," I said, my voice trembling slightly as I set the cheap frame onto the polished marble bar, "he gave me a final message. He told me the key to his safety deposit box at First National Bank was hidden behind this picture."

Roman set his glass down instantly. His eyes sharpened. "First National? That's the private offshore repository on 5th Street."

I used my fingernail to pry open the back of the cheap wooden frame. The paper backing crumbled away. Tucked neatly between the cardboard and the faded ultrasound photo was a small, flat brass key stamped with the number 409.

Roman picked up the key, turning it over under the ambient light. "Mercer’s personal vault. If he kept records of the illegal transfers, they are in that box."

"We need to get it," I said firmly. "Tomorrow morning. The moment the bank opens."

"No," Roman said, shaking his head. "First National isn't a normal bank. It’s owned by a consortium of old-money families in Chicago—including the Vance family. If you walk into that lobby with Mercer’s key, the system will trigger an automatic security alert to Senator Vance’s private office before the teller even opens the vault door."

"Then what do we do?!" I demanded, exasperated. "Wait for Vance to send another hitman to burn the bank down?!"

"No," Roman said, a dark, dangerous smile flickering across his lips. "We don't wait for him to find out. We use his own event against him."

"What event?"

"Tomorrow night is the annual Vance Medical Foundation Gala at the Drake Hotel," Roman explained, taking a step toward me. "Every powerful politician, judge, and banker in Illinois will be in that ballroom. Senator Vance expects me to attend alone—or to stay home nursing a scandal."

"And instead?"

"Instead," Roman said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch, "you are going to walk into that ballroom on my arm. Wearing thirty carats of Voss diamonds and a dress that costs more than your diner’s entire annual budget."

I stared at him, incredulous. "Are you insane?! I'm a waitress! I don't belong in a room full of millionaires!"

"You belong anywhere your children's legacy is threatened," Roman countered, his voice deep and unyielding. "While Vance is trapped on stage delivering his keynote speech in front of five hundred news cameras, Donovan and my tech team will use his private security override—which I will steal from his coat at the gala—to clear Box 409 without firing a single shot."

I looked at the brass key lying on the marble counter, then up at the feared billionaire standing before me.

"You're using me as a distraction," I stated.

"I am using us as a weapon," Roman corrected softly. "Vance thinks you are weak, Pamela. He thinks you are a broke girl from the slums who can be bullied into silence. Tomorrow night, we show him that the mother of the Voss heirs is the most dangerous woman in Chicago."

A cold, fierce determination surged through my veins. The girl who had scrubbed diner tables, the girl who had cried herself to sleep over an empty crib, was gone.