THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME TO HAVE HIS DEAD MOTHER’S PIANO HAULED AWAY BEFORE THEIR ENGAGEMENT DINNER—BUT WHEN I ROLLED IT INTO THE ROOM WITH SIX IVORY KEYS MISSING, LUCA LOOKED AT THE WHITE COMB IN HER HAIR AND SAID, “TAKE IT OFF.”**

The west sitting room of the Moretti estate always felt like a church to me. Quiet. Cold. Untouched.

The room smelled of lemon polish and old paper, but the centerpiece—a massive, black Steinway grand piano—always carried a faint layer of dust. I was the only person allowed to touch it, and even then, I only used a microfiber cloth on the lid every Tuesday. That was the rule.

Elena Moretti had died seventeen years ago. Her son, Luca, now ran the city in ways that made politicians sweat and rival families bleed. But in this house, his mother’s memory was absolute law. There were photographs on the mantel of Elena sitting at the bench, her dark hair cascading down her back. In one picture, an eight-year-old Luca sat beside her, his small hands resting over hers on the keys.

Nobody played the piano. Nobody moved it.

Until 4:00 PM on a Thursday, three hours before Luca’s massive prenuptial dinner.

“Emma,” a sharp voice called from the hallway.

I turned from dusting a side table. Vanessa Bellini stood in the doorway, wearing a tailored white pantsuit and a scowl that could curdle milk. She was thirty-two, stunningly beautiful, and possessed a cruelty that she wore like expensive perfume.

“Yes, Mrs. Bellini?” I answered, keeping my eyes respectfully low.

“Get in here.”

I followed her into the west sitting room. My heart immediately hammered against my ribs.

Two burly movers in gray jumpsuits were standing beside Elena Moretti’s piano. They held thick moving blankets and heavy-duty straps.

“Good,” Vanessa said without looking at me. “Tell them to take this out through the service entrance.”

I stared at her, completely bewildered. “Where is it going?”

“Donation,” she replied flatly, tapping something out on her phone.

I looked at the piano. The black lacquer reflected the afternoon sun. “Does Mr. Moretti know?”

Vanessa finally looked up from her phone. She gave me the look she used whenever she thought a staff member had forgotten her place—a mixture of profound annoyance and complete disdain.

“Why would Luca care about a broken piano?”

“It belonged to his mother,” I said softly.

“And now it belongs to this house,” Vanessa snapped. She ran one perfectly manicured hand along the dusty lid, leaving a streak. “We need this room to display the wedding gifts tomorrow. The caterers need the floor space.”

I hesitated. The air in the room felt suddenly very thin. “Maybe it should go into storage, ma'am.”

Vanessa turned her entire body to face me. “Emma.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I did not ask you for decorating advice.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then have it removed immediately.”

She turned to leave, but one of the movers cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.

“Ma’am?” he asked.