THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE TOLD ME TO SEAT HIS SEVENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD FORMER HOUSEKEEPER IN THE KITCHEN—BUT WHEN I BROUGHT HER TO THE ENGAGEMENT TABLE, LUCA MORETTI STOOD UP AND CALLED HER “MAMA ROSA.”

Ten minutes later, I found Rosa standing quietly by the service entrance near the back hallway. She didn't look angry; she just looked small against the towering stone walls of the mansion.

When she saw me approach, her pale face lit up with a warm, genuine smile.

"Did Luca get the pie yet, dear?" she asked, her voice raspy with age.

I hesitated, holding the tray tightly against my uniform. "Not yet, Mrs. Alvarez."

"He loved apple when he was little," she said softly, chuckling to herself as if remembering a distant, fond memory. "Used to sneak into the pantry and steal the top crust before it even had time to cool on the rack."

She unbuttoned her worn leather purse and reached inside. Her fingers emerged holding a yellowed, age-spotted envelope. Luca’s name was written across the front in delicate, sweeping cursive handwriting.

"Would you give him this too?" she asked, extending her hand toward me.

I stared at the faded ink on the envelope. "Who wrote it?"

Rosa’s gentle smile faded, replaced by a quiet reverence. "His mother."

I caught my breath. Luca Moretti’s mother had been dead for twenty-six years. She was a legend in the city, the soft heart behind the original Moretti foundation before the family business turned dark and lethal.

"She asked me to keep it until Luca finally decided to marry," Rosa explained, touching the paper carefully with her thumb.

I looked down the long hallway toward the grand ballroom, where laughter and classical violin music echoed off the high ceilings.

"Does he know you have this?" I asked.

"No," Rosa replied softly. "She told me I would know when the time was right."

That decided everything for me. I didn't care about my job anymore. I didn't care about Vanessa’s threats or the fear that Luca Moretti’s name usually inspired across the city.