"The disabled mafia boss sank to the bottom of the pool while 200 guests watched in silence—unaware his new secretary knew the real reason she jumped in."

Emily sat on the edge of the small bed in her quarters on the third floor of the east wing. Her damp clothes from the afternoon had been discarded, replaced by her usual plain black trousers and a high-collared navy sweater. She had locked her bedroom door, but she knew how little a brass bolt meant in a house like this.

On the small wooden desk beside her lay a hidden satellite phone, completely disassembled into three harmless-looking pieces, hidden inside the battery compartment of a desk clock.

A sharp, double knock echoed against her door.

Emily froze. Her hand moved instinctively toward her pocket, where a small, concealed steel blade rested against her thigh. She took a quiet, deep breath, smoothing down her sweater, letting the nervous, hesitant persona of "Emily the temp" slide back over her face like a mask.

"Who is it?" she asked, her voice deliberately wavering.

"It's Leo," a rough baritone answered from the hallway. "The Don wants you in the library. Now."

Emily's chest tightened. She stood up, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Leo stood in the dimly lit corridor, his broad frame blocking the light from the wall sconces. His face was entirely devoid of warmth, but there was a strange, new caution in his eyes as he looked at her—a subtle shift in perception.

"Is he... is he okay?" Emily asked, wringing her hands nervously.

"He's alive," Leo said gruffly. "Follow me. And don't keep him waiting."

They walked in silence down the long, carpeted hallways of the estate. The mansion, usually bustling with quiet servants and suited guards, was eerily empty tonight. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight over every window, shielding the house from the foggy night.

Leo stopped outside the heavy mahogany doors of the master library on the ground floor. He didn't knock. He simply opened one side of the double doors, stepped aside, and gestured for her to enter.

Inside, the room smelled of old leather, woodsmoke, and the sharp, medicinal odor of rubbing alcohol. A massive marble fireplace crackled in the corner, casting flickering orange shadows across the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Sitting in a dry, spare wheelchair near the fire was Santino Ferrara.

He was dressed in a simple dark wool sweater and gray trousers, a heavy plaid blanket draped over his motionless legs. His dark hair was still slightly damp, brushed straight back from his high forehead. On the small table beside him sat a silver tray holding two crystal glasses and a bottle of dark, amber whiskey.

He didn't turn around immediately when the door clicked shut behind her.

"Come close to the fire, Miss Taylor," Santino said. His voice was raspy, damaged by the sea water he had swallowed, but it held a quiet, absolute gravity that made the room feel smaller. "You're still cold."

Emily hesitated, then took several slow, measured steps across the Persian rug until she stood five feet from his chair.

"I... I can come back in the morning, Mr. Ferrara, if you need rest," she whispered, keeping her head slightly bowed.

Santino turned his chair smoothly with a flick of his right hand on the control stick. His face was pale, the sharp contours of his jawline accentuated by the firelight, but his eyes were wide awake—cold, razor-sharp, and entirely focused on her face.

"Nine days," Santino murmured, lifting a glass of whiskey with a steady hand. "You've been in my house for nine days. You spilled coffee on my desk on Tuesday. You dropped a stack of shipping manifests in the hallway on Thursday. You trembled every time Leo opened a door for you."

He took a slow sip of the amber liquid, setting the glass back down onto the tray with a soft clack.

"And then today," he continued softly, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, "you dove into ten feet of water without hesitation, stayed at the bottom for nearly forty seconds without panicking, worked through three tight brass buttons on a wet wool coat while looking me straight in the eyes, and executed a flawless cross-chest rescue carry to the shallow steps."