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He nods, as if heartbreak is a common occurrence.

The cab stops near Lexington. I pay, and in the middle of counting bills, the driver looks up at me. “Whatever you’re running from, lady…good luck.” His voice is quiet and sympathetic.

I head into the library on the corner, slide into a nook, and plug the drive into a battered PC. There are a lot of files, but one in particular stands out.

When I open it, Mama’s old contacts blink on the screen, the names like half-forgotten songs from a life I barely remember. Lawyers, accountants, fixers, men who smiled while robbing souls and probably slept just fine at night.

Then one name glows brighter than the rest, like it’s been highlighted by fate or karma or whatever cosmic force enjoys watching me suffer.

Anthony Bellini. My dad’s lawyer.

A professional looking email sits beneath the name. After searching the files, I realize this is the man Vincent would turn to first in New York. Of course my father has a fixer on speed dial. That’s completely normal for a career criminal.

Just what I needed…another morally bankrupt man in an expensive suit to deal with.

I type a message, keeping my tone neutral and stripped of emotion. I have something that belongs to Mr. Vincent Martinelli. Interested in discussing a return?

The email vanishes into cyberspace. I wait, tapping my nails against the table and counting the seconds. By the time the coffee machine hisses again, a reply pings back.

Tomorrow morning at six. Private lounge. Abenaki on 44th. Come alone.

The sign-off, a single V, is all the confirmation I need.

One task completed, the easier one. The harder question is what to do with the rest of it, specifically the Gabi file. The recording of him plotting his father’s death.

That’s not Vincent’s weapon. That’s mine.

I think about who in the Benedetti family has both the motive and the standing to act on it. Who hates Gabi enough, and loves the family enough, to use it. Only one name comes to mind.

Izzy.

I create a new email address—a throwaway one—and attach the Gabi file. No introduction. No signature. Just a subject line, Your father’s killer. Do with this what your father deserved.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Then I eject the drive, close the browser, and walk out into the rain.

Three hours later, another cab drops me off near the car I ditched. After that, the drive to the Benedetti compound passes in a blur. This time, the guard recognizes me and asks no questions. Just nods and opens the gates. I park at the open-air garage and venture back to the mini villa, where those guards don’t notice the mud on my boots or the new steel in my gait.

On the porch, I see Marco, who’s busy arguing with Gio about shifts. “Everything quiet?” he calls as I wave at him.

“Too quiet,” I answer before I can stop myself.

He laughs, oblivious.

Guilt pricks at me, small but insistent. It doesn’t stop me, though. Guilt is a luxury for people who still trust the world.

Since Enzo’s still not back at the estate, I head to my room and sit in front of the dresser mirror. The woman staring back at me is someone I almost don’t recognize. My green eyes aren’t soft anymore. I look like someone who’s stopped waiting for rescue.

Being in Enzo’s world has changed me. Somewhere between fear and fury, a new version of me has been born.

But is this the right place for me?

My fingers toy with the ruby ring Nonna Rosa gave me. The heavy gold, carved with the Benedetti crest, feels weightier now. Once, it felt sacred, like a token of belonging.

I wonder if I should trust Enzo with all of this. Trust. The word sours on my tongue. Trust gets you caged.

Outside, the wind claws at the windows. Enzo might be killing my father right now. For me. And that thought makes breathing difficult.

I also know he’d blame himself for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t be able to look at me, and that might drive us apart.