The maid’s three-year-old daughter knocked the cake from a mafia boss’s son’s hands just before he took a bite—then she revealed the man who had poisoned it was someone the family trusted most.

The underground vault of the Moretti manor was a subterranean marvel of concrete, reinforced steel, and soundproof cedar paneling. It sat thirty feet below the foundation of the house, accessible only via a private reinforced elevator behind the library bookshelf.

The air downstairs was chilled and filtered. Along the walls hung dozens of vintage rifles, display cases containing rare coins, and thick steel doors leading into climate-controlled safety deposit rooms. In the center of the main room sat a heavy iron table surrounded by high-backed leather chairs.

Sophia sat in the corner of the room, her arm clamped tight around Lily’s shoulders. Ethan sat beside them on a storage crate, refusing to look down, his knuckles white.

The heavy steel elevator doors hissed open.

Julian Moretti stepped out first. He looked strikingly similar to Dante, but leaner, sharper, with slicked-back raven hair and a meticulously trimmed beard. He wore an ivory tuxedo jacket that contrasted sharply with Dante’s dark attire. On his left ring finger, a silver band crowned with an obsidian stone etched in the shape of a swooping raven caught the dim overhead light.

"Dante, this is madness," Julian complained as he walked into the vault, throwing his hands in the air. "Senator Vance is upstairs! The heads of the three families are sitting in the drawing room like prisoners! If the press gets wind of this—"

Julian stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes fell upon the far corner of the room. He saw Sophia, still dressed in her black maid’s uniform and white apron. And then he saw Lily, swinging her feet off the bench, hugging her stuffed rabbit.

For a fraction of a second—less than the blink of an eye—Julian’s left eyelid twitched. His posture stiffened.

Dante stepped out of the elevator behind him, the heavy iron door clanging shut with the finality of a prison cell.

"The guests can wait, Julian," Dante said casually, walking over to a mahogany liquor cabinet. He pulled down two crystal tumblers and poured three fingers of amber scotch into both. "We have a family matter to settle first."

"A family matter?" Julian scoffed, though his voice had tightened. "With the house staff present? Dante, you’re losing your grip. Ever since Elena died, you see ghosts behind every curtain."

Dante didn't take the bait. He carried the two glasses of scotch to the iron table and set one down in front of an empty chair.

"Sit, brother," Dante commanded softly.

Julian hesitated, then pulled the heavy chair back and sat down. He didn't touch the glass. "What is this, Dante?"

Dante leaned against the edge of the table, crossing his arms. "The cake was laced with potassium cyanide. Enough to stop Ethan’s heart within forty seconds."

Julian’s face morphed into an expression of horrified shock. "My God... Ethan! Is he alright? Who did it? Was it the Russians? I told you Boris was pushing into the Brooklyn yards!"

"It wasn't Boris," Dante said. He pointed across the room toward the corner. "Lily, come here."

Sophia held Lily tighter. "Please, Don Moretti—"

"Bring her here, Sophia," Dante said, not raising his voice, but the steel underneath it admitted no refusal. "Nothing will happen to her. I give you my word on my son’s life."

Sophia swallowed hard. Taking a deep breath, she picked Lily up and carried her across the cold concrete floor, stopping three paces from the table.

Julian stared at the little girl, an artificial, patronizing smile spreading across his lips. "What is this, Dante? You’re questioning babies now?"

"Lily," Dante said calmly, pointing at Julian’s hands resting on the iron tabletop. "Look at the man’s hands. Is that the ring?"

Lily looked at Julian. Then she looked at the silver ring with the black raven stone. Her small eyes widened with that raw, primal terror only children possess when they recognize the monster from under their bed.

She buried her face into Sophia’s neck, whimpering. "Bitter man. Bad medicine. He put the powder on Ethan’s candles."

Julian laughed—a loud, hollow sound that echoed off the concrete walls. "Are you insane? You’re taking the word of a three-year-old child whose mother cleans our toilets? Dante, look at me! I’m your brother! I carried Ethan on my shoulders when he took his first steps!"

"You did," Dante agreed, nodding slowly. "And you also visited Dr. Aris Thorne in Queens yesterday afternoon."