Part 2: A powerful mafia boss woke up to a little girl saving his life with his inhaler, completely unaware that her presence exposed a secret buried with his dead wife.

“Mister? Mister, wake up!”

The voice was tiny, high-pitched, and trembling with fear, yet there was a shocking steadiness in the hands that shook his shoulder.

Lucas blinked against the gray fog creeping over his eyes. Standing over him was a little girl. She couldn't have been more than five or six years old. She wore an oversized, faded yellow knit sweater that reached past her knees, worn canvas sneakers with frayed laces, and had a tangle of soft brown curls framing a pale, dirt-smudged face.

“You can’t breathe,” she whispered, her wide hazel eyes darting to his gasping mouth. “Like Mommy used to.”

Lucas was drowning in his own chest. His hands trembled violently on the pavement. He was seconds away from cardiac arrest.

The girl didn't run. Instead, she dropped her small canvas backpack onto the slush. Her tiny fingers unzipped the front pocket with practiced urgency.

She pulled out a blue Albuterol inhaler.

Lucas stared at it in sheer disbelief. It was identical to the one he had left in the car.

“Sit up! You have to sit up!” she commanded, her small voice tightening with authority. She grabbed the lapels of his thousand-dollar coat and shoved him back against the brick wall.

Lucas didn't have the strength to resist. He slumped upright, his mouth hanging open, fighting for oxygen.

The little girl shook the inhaler vigorously, exactly four times—the universal medical protocol. She popped the plastic cap off with her teeth, put the mouthpiece between his trembling lips, and said firmly, “Breathe in when I press!”

She pressed the canister down.

A cold burst of medication blasted into his airway.

“Hold it,” she instructed, holding up five small fingers, counting down silently. “Now breathe out.”

Lucas exhaled, his chest shuddering. She administered a second dose immediately, pressing the canister with both of her small thumbs.

Within thirty seconds, the bronchial spasms began to loosen. Oxygen surged back into Lucas’s starved brain. He took a long, ragged, wheezing breath, coughing hard against his sleeve as his pulse steadied.

He slumped against the wall, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. He looked at the child standing before him, holding the inhaler like a miniature medic.

“Who... who are you?” Lucas rasped, his voice raw.

The girl tucked the inhaler carefully back into her pocket, looking at him with wary, intelligent eyes. “My name is Mia.”

“Where did you... where did you learn to do that, Mia?”

“My mommy,” she answered simply. “Mommy got sick a lot. She told me if someone wheezes like a whistle, I have to give them the blue medicine right away or their heart goes to sleep.”

Footsteps pounded on the cobblestones. Victor and three armed guards rounded the corner, guns drawn beneath their coats.

“Boss!” Victor shouted, rushing forward. “Lucas! What happened?”

The little girl gasped, terrified by the sudden arrival of four massive men in black overcoats. She backed away toward the alley, grabbing her canvas bag.

“Hold your fire!” Lucas roared, raising an arm to halt his men. He pushed himself to his feet, still lightheaded, but his eyes were locked on the child.

She turned to flee into the dark alley.

As she turned, her oversized yellow sweater caught on a rusted iron gate, pulling the collar down slightly. Around her slender neck hung a chain. Dangling from that chain was a heavy, custom-made pendant of intertwined platinum lilies, with a sapphire embedded directly into the center blossom.

Lucas stopped breathing entirely.

The pendant.

He had designed that exact necklace himself seven years ago. He had paid an Italian master jeweler fifty thousand dollars to craft a one-of-a-kind piece for his wife on the day she told him she was pregnant.