The first word Lorenzo Moretti spoke after twenty-three days in a coma wasn’t his sister’s name.

It wasn’t a prayer.

It wasn’t even a request for water.

It was a warning.

“Run.”

And he was looking directly at my daughter.

The medical team rushed to his bedside.

Dr. Reed checked his pupils while Nurse Elena called for additional staff.

Lorenzo’s eyes remained open for only a few seconds.

Then they closed again.

But before he slipped back into unconsciousness, his tattooed fingers tightened around the edge of his blanket.

Three times.

Isabella saw it.

Her face changed.

“Clara, take Emma to my bedroom. Lock the door.”

“What’s happening?”

“Please. Just trust me.”

I didn’t argue.

With Emma asleep against my shoulder, I hurried down the corridor.

Behind me, I heard Vivian’s voice.

“Isabella! I demand to see my fiancé!”

“You aren’t welcome here.”

“I have legal authority!”

“Not anymore.”

The argument faded as I reached Isabella’s private apartment in the west wing.

I locked the door.

Then Emma stirred.

“Mommy?”

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“Sleeping man sad.”

My heart twisted.

“I know, baby.”

Emma reached for her bunny.

“Man say sorry.”

I froze.

“What did you say?”

She pointed toward the hallway.

“Sleeping man say sorry.”

I assumed she’d heard Lorenzo whisper something while the doctors were treating him.

But Emma shook her head.

“No. Before.”

A cold sensation crept up my spine.

Before?

Before what?

Before his accident?

Before we moved into the mansion?

That was impossible.

Or so I believed.

An hour later, Isabella returned.

She locked the door behind her.

“Vivian’s gone,” she said.

“Why did Lorenzo react when she arrived?”

“We think he may have recognized her voice.”

“Then why did he tell us to run?”

Isabella looked toward Emma.

“Because Lorenzo was investigating Vivian before his accident.”

She placed a black leather folder on the table.

Inside were financial documents, photographs, and medical records.

One photograph showed Vivian outside a Boston clinic.

Another showed her meeting a man in a parking garage.

The man was tall, with silver hair and a scar across his chin.

I recognized him immediately.

His name was Daniel Mercer.

He was Emma’s father.

The man who had abandoned me while I was pregnant.

I grabbed the photograph.

“Where did you get this?”

Isabella studied my face.

“Clara, who is that?”

“My daughter’s father.”

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Then she whispered, “Dear God.”

I felt sick.

“What?”

Isabella sat down.

“Daniel Mercer was Lorenzo’s chief financial officer.”

My fingers went numb.

“He worked for Lorenzo?”

“For twelve years. Until Lorenzo discovered he’d been secretly transferring money through several companies.”

I stared at the photograph.

Daniel had told me he worked in international shipping.

He’d never mentioned the Moretti family.

“He disappeared three years ago,” I whispered.

“No,” Isabella replied.

“He disappeared from your life.”

She opened another folder.

Daniel had been living under a different name in Connecticut.

He owned two properties.

He had a wife.

And two teenage sons.

The man who’d told me he couldn’t afford to raise a baby had been wealthy the entire time.

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

“Why would he leave us?”

Isabella’s answer was devastating.

“Because Vivian told him your pregnancy threatened their operation.”

“What operation?”

Before she could answer, Emma began tugging at my sleeve.

“Mommy. Bunny.”

I looked down.

Her stuffed rabbit had fallen onto the floor.

I picked it up.

Something inside its belly made a faint clicking sound.

I frowned.

The bunny had been Emma’s favorite toy since she was a newborn.

It was a gift.

A gift delivered to our apartment shortly after her birth.

There had been no return address.

Only a card.

FOR THE LITTLE SUNSHINE.

I suddenly remembered how frightened I’d felt when the package arrived.

Isabella noticed my expression.

“What’s wrong?”

I squeezed the toy gently.

Something hard was hidden beneath the stuffing.

“There’s something inside this bunny.”

Within minutes, Isabella called her head of security, Gabriel Santos.

He examined the toy using a handheld scanner.

Then he carefully opened a seam beneath its ribbon.

Inside was a tiny electronic device.

Gabriel’s expression darkened.

“It’s a tracker.”

My heart nearly stopped.

“Someone has been tracking my daughter?”

“Possibly. We need to examine it.”

He placed the device inside a signal-blocking pouch.

Then he turned toward Isabella.

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“The device contains a removable memory chip.”

Gabriel connected the chip to an isolated computer.

A single audio file appeared.

The recording was dated three years earlier.

The day Emma was born.

Isabella pressed play.

At first, there was only static.

Then a woman’s voice.

Vivian Cross.

“The baby has been delivered. But the mother refused the agreement.”

A man’s voice answered.

Daniel.

“Then find another way.”

My stomach twisted.

Vivian spoke again.

“We can’t let Lorenzo discover what we’ve done.”

Then came a third voice.

A voice I didn’t recognize.

“You’re already too late.”

The recording ended.

I looked at Isabella.

“Who was that?”

She had gone pale.

“I don’t know.”

But Gabriel was staring at the screen.

“Miss Moretti, there’s another file.”

He opened it.

A video appeared.

It showed a hospital nursery.

Rows of bassinets.

A nurse moving between them.

Then the camera turned toward a newborn wrapped in a white blanket.

The name on the bassinet was unmistakable.

EMMA BENNETT.

My daughter.

A man’s hand reached into the frame.

He gently adjusted her blanket.

Then he leaned close and whispered something.

The camera shifted upward.

And I saw his face.

Lorenzo Moretti.

I staggered backward.

“No.”

Isabella caught my arm.

On the recording, Lorenzo looked down at my newborn daughter with tears in his eyes.

Then he whispered:

“I promised your mother I’d protect you.”

I couldn’t move.

Lorenzo had known Emma since the day she was born.

He had known about us long before I entered his mansion.

And somehow, the most feared Mafia boss in Manhattan had been protecting my daughter from a secret nobody had ever explained.

But before Isabella could tell me why, Gabriel’s radio crackled.

“Security breach. East basement.”

He listened for another moment.

Then his expression changed.

“Miss Moretti, someone just opened the underground medical archive.”

Isabella stood.

“That’s impossible. Only Lorenzo has the access code.”

Gabriel shook his head.

“The system says the code was entered correctly.”

Then he looked at the screen again.

“And the person who entered it is listed as Clara Bennett.”

My blood turned cold.

Someone had used my name.

And according to the security system, I was already standing in the basement.

Even though I hadn’t left the room.