Chapter 1 - The Door I Was Never Supposed to OpenAt 12:17 in the morning, I walked into a dangerous man's bedroom looking for a bathroom.
Forty-three minutes later, I discovered someone had deliberately sent me there.
And by sunrise, a man I had never kissed would be telling his entire family that I belonged at his side.
My name is Sophie Miller.
I'm twenty-nine years old, I own a small floral business in Chicago, and until that night, my experience with organized crime consisted entirely of watching television shows while folding laundry.
I had no criminal connections.
No powerful relatives.
No secret fortune.
I had three employees, two delivery vans that needed constant repairs, and a checking account that made me nervous every Friday morning.
My father used to say flowers were the one luxury people purchased when they were either desperately happy or desperately sad.
He had built his business around that observation.
I had inherited it.
What I hadn't inherited was his ability to remain calm when everything went wrong.
And that Thursday night, everything went wrong.
It started with a bucket of dirty water.
I was working at the Romano estate, a sprawling limestone mansion overlooking Lake Michigan, preparing arrangements for the family's upcoming charity gala.
The event was supposed to bring together Chicago's wealthiest families, political donors, hospital executives, and several people whose names I recognized from news reports I usually avoided reading.
The guest list was intimidating.
The security was worse.
Armed men stood near the entrances.
Cameras watched the corridors.
Even the gardeners carried radios.
But the money was extraordinary.
The Romano Foundation had agreed to pay my company enough to cover three months of payroll.
For that kind of contract, I would have arranged roses inside a lion's cage.
At 11:58 p.m., I knocked over a bucket of water while carrying white peonies through the east corridor.
The water soaked my midnight-blue dress.
I stood there, staring at the spreading stain.
"Perfect," I muttered.
Elena, the senior housekeeper, appeared almost immediately.
She was a slender woman in her late fifties, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun and the permanently exhausted expression of someone who had spent years cleaning up other people's mistakes.
"Are you all right, Miss Miller?"
"My dignity didn't survive, but the flowers are fine."
She looked toward the corridor behind us.
Something about her expression changed.
"There's a bathroom upstairs," she said quickly. "You can clean yourself there."
"Which way?"
"Take the west staircase. Follow the blue runner. Third door on your right."
I thanked her.
She caught my wrist before I could leave.
Her fingers were cold.
"Don't stop in the hallway," she whispered.
I blinked.
"Sorry?"
"Just go straight there."
I assumed she was worried about me dripping dirty water across expensive carpet.
So I followed her directions.
The west staircase was enormous, with marble steps and a carved wooden banister that probably cost more than my delivery van.
The upstairs corridor was silent.
A blue runner stretched along the polished floor.
I counted three doors.
Then I opened the third.
And found myself looking down the barrel of a pistol.
The man holding it was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing nothing but a black towel around his waist.
Water dripped from his short dark hair.
A tattoo disappeared beneath the towel at his hip.
Another covered part of his left shoulder.
His chest was marked with several old scars.
But none of that frightened me nearly as much as his eyes.
They were dark, focused, and utterly calm.
"Don't move," he said.
I stopped breathing.
"I think I've made a terrible mistake."
"Who are you?"
"Sophie."
His expression didn't change.
"Sophie who?"
"Miller. Flowers. I mean, I do flowers. Professionally."
He lowered the gun slightly.
"How did you get into my bedroom?"
"Through the door."
He stared at me.
I swallowed.
"That sounded less stupid in my head."
"Why are you here?"
"I needed a bathroom."
"In my bedroom?"
"I didn't know it was your bedroom!"
For the first time, something resembling disbelief crossed his face.
Then I noticed the black robe hanging over a chair.
The enormous bed.
The whiskey on the nightstand.
The security monitors embedded in the wall.
And the unmistakable realization that I was standing inside the private bedroom of Massimo Romano.
The Massimo Romano.
Chicago's most feared mafia boss.
The man whose photograph occasionally appeared in newspapers beside words like investigation, federal indictment, and alleged criminal enterprise.
None of those articles ever seemed to result in him going to prison.
I had always assumed that was because he employed excellent attorneys.
Standing in his bedroom, I began to suspect there were other explanations.
"I'm leaving," I announced.
"Stay where you are."
"Respectfully, I would prefer not to."
"Someone entered my private wing without authorization. I need to know how."
"Your housekeeper told me—"
Footsteps interrupted me.
Several voices approached from the hallway.
Massimo looked toward the door.
His jaw tightened.
Before either of us could speak, both doors swung open.
Four people stood in the entrance.
An elegant elderly woman wearing silver.
A beautiful middle-aged woman in pearls.
A distinguished gentleman with graying hair.
And a younger man in an expensive suit who looked remarkably similar to Massimo.
All four stared at me.
Then at Massimo.
Then at his towel.
The elderly woman's mouth opened.
"Oh, my goodness."
The woman in pearls pressed a hand to her chest.
"Massimo!"
I raised both hands.
"This is not what it looks like."
Nobody listened.
The older gentleman looked deeply uncomfortable.
The younger man appeared to be fighting a smile.
And the grandmother looked as though someone had just handed her the winning lottery ticket.
"Well," she declared, "it's about time."
I turned toward Massimo.
He was watching his family with the expression of a man calculating several unpleasant possibilities.
"Everyone," he said evenly, "leave."
His mother stepped forward.
"Who is this woman?"
I opened my mouth.
But Massimo answered first.
"She's with me."
Four words.
That was all it took.
His grandmother clasped her hands together.
"I knew it! I told your mother there had to be someone!"
"Grandma," Massimo warned.
"And she's beautiful! Look at her!"
I wished she wouldn't.
My dress was wet, my hair was escaping its pins, and I had just nearly been shot while searching for a toilet.
"This is a misunderstanding," I said.
His grandmother smiled warmly.
"Of course, dear."
"No, I mean an actual misunderstanding."
She gave Massimo a delighted look.
"Now I understand why you refused Adriana."
"Who's Adriana?" I demanded.
The younger man finally laughed.
Massimo shot him a look that stopped him immediately.
His mother, however, wasn't amused.
"Massimo, we need to discuss the Vitali family."
"Tomorrow."
"Vittorio expects an answer."
"He'll get one."
"And what exactly am I supposed to tell him about this?"
Massimo looked at me.
For one terrifying moment, I thought he might announce we were engaged.
Instead, he said, "Tell him my personal life is none of his business."
His grandmother laughed.
"Finally, a sensible answer."
I tried one last time.
"I am literally just the florist."
That made the younger man's smile disappear.
The older gentleman's eyebrows lifted.
Massimo crossed the room, pulled on his robe, and opened the door wider.
"Out."
His mother looked ready to argue.
Then she seemed to reconsider.
The older gentleman touched her elbow.
The younger man followed them.
His grandmother remained.
She examined me with undisguised affection.
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Sophie."
"Such a lovely name. I'm Rosa Romano."
"Nice to meet you," I said weakly.
"Breakfast is at nine."
"I won't be here at nine."
Rosa smiled.
"We'll see."
Then she left.
The doors closed.
Silence settled over the room.
I turned toward Massimo.
"What the hell was that?"
He placed his pistol inside a drawer.
"My family."
"I gathered that."
"They expect me to announce an engagement tomorrow."
"To Adriana?"
"Adriana Vitali."
"Then marry her!"
"No."
"Then tell them no!"
"I have."
"Apparently not convincingly!"
Massimo poured a glass of water and took a drink.
He looked infuriatingly composed for a man who had just destroyed my reputation within approximately thirty seconds.
"Your family thinks I'm your girlfriend," I continued.
"Yes."
"Your grandmother thinks we're getting married."
"She thinks everyone should get married."
"Your mother looks like she wants to have me investigated!"
"She probably already has."
I stared at him.
He actually looked faintly amused.
"This isn't funny."
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
"Then why are you smiling?"
"Because you are the first person in this house who has yelled at me twice in the same conversation."
"Give me another thirty seconds."
His mouth twitched.
I grabbed my handbag from the chair where I had dropped it.
"Good night, Mr. Romano. I hope your future marriage is very unhappy."
I headed for the door.
"Sophie."
I stopped.
I hadn't told him my full name.
Slowly, I turned around.
"How do you know who I am?"
"You've been working in my home for three days. I know who enters my property."
"That is incredibly unsettling."
"Tell me something."
"What?"
"Who sent you upstairs?"
"Elena."
His expression changed.
"Elena told you to come here?"
"Yes."
"Exactly what did she say?"
I repeated her instructions.
West staircase.
Blue runner.
Third door on the right.
Don't stop in the hallway.
Massimo went completely still.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
He walked toward the security monitor.
Pressed a button.
A floor plan appeared.
He pointed toward the opposite end of the house.
"The nearest guest bathroom is here."
I stared at the screen.
"That's nowhere near your room."
"No."
"Maybe she got confused."
"Elena has worked for my family for fifteen years."
Something cold settled in my stomach.
"Then why would she send me here?"
"That's what I intend to find out."
He picked up his phone.
"Enzo. Come upstairs."
A moment later, a deep voice answered.
"Problem?"
"Find Elena."
"Is something wrong?"
"Possibly."
Massimo ended the call.
I folded my arms.
"Am I allowed to leave now?"
He studied me.
"Did Elena seem frightened?"
The question surprised me.
I remembered her cold fingers.
Her sudden glance down the corridor.
The urgency in her voice.
"Yes," I admitted. "A little."
"Did she give you anything?"
"No."
"Did anyone follow you?"
"I don't think so."
Massimo's phone rang.
He answered immediately.
"Speak."
I watched his face harden.
"When?"
A pause.
"Check every exit. Quietly."
He disconnected.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Elena isn't in her quarters."
"Maybe she's working."
"Her uniform was found in the staff laundry. Her phone is there too."
I didn't like the way he said that.
"Maybe she went home."
"Her car is still in the garage."
The room suddenly felt much colder.
A knock came at the door.
A large man entered.
He had close-cropped brown hair, a scar across one eyebrow, and the exhausted confidence of someone who spent his life anticipating violence.
"Enzo Morelli," he introduced himself.
I nodded.
"Unfortunately, Sophie Miller."
He didn't smile.
"Boss, there's another problem."
Massimo looked at him.
"The west-wing cameras stopped recording for eighty-three seconds."
"When?"
"12:11 a.m."
Six minutes before I entered the bedroom.
My heart began pounding.
Enzo continued.
"Someone manually disabled the feed from the internal security system."
Massimo's expression turned dangerous.
"Who has access?"
"Your security team. Myself. Dominic Vale. Two technicians."
"Where's Dominic?"
"Checking the perimeter."
"Bring him in."
Enzo hesitated.
"And, Massimo, there's something else."
He held up a clear evidence sleeve.
Inside was a small laminated card.
My photograph stared back at me.
It was my temporary vendor badge.
Except I was still wearing my badge around my neck.
I touched it instinctively.
"How do you have another one?"
"We found it near the private office," Enzo said.
"That's impossible."
Massimo took the sleeve.
He compared the photograph with the badge hanging from my dress.
Same picture.
Same number.
Same name.
SOPHIE MILLER.
But the second card had a thin red stripe across the bottom.
"What's that mean?" I asked.
Massimo didn't answer immediately.
Enzo did.
"Restricted access."
I looked between them.
"I've never been inside your private office."
"I believe you," Massimo said.
Something about those three words frightened me more than if he'd accused me.
"Why?"
"Because whoever made this badge knew you would be inside my house tonight."
Enzo's phone vibrated.
He glanced down.
"Boss. Dominic says he's at the north gate, but the guard there hasn't seen him."
Massimo's eyes narrowed.
"Seal the exits. Nobody leaves without my approval."
Enzo disappeared.
I swallowed.
"You're locking everyone in?"
"Until I know what's happening."
"That includes me?"
Massimo looked at my shaking hands.
"Not against your will."
"Then I want to go home."
"I can arrange an escort."
I almost agreed.
I imagined my apartment in Pilsen.
My old couch.
The stack of unpaid invoices on my kitchen table.
My cat, Oliver, sleeping on the windowsill.
Normal things.
Safe things.
Then Massimo asked one more question.
"Did you bring all the flowers yourself?"
"Most of them. My driver brought the refrigerated crates yesterday afternoon."
"How many?"
"Fourteen."
He glanced at the screen again.
"Fourteen?"
"Yes."
"Are you certain?"
"I personally checked the inventory."
Massimo reached for his phone.
"Enzo. Pull the loading dock records."
A few moments passed.
Then the report appeared on the monitor.
Fifteen crates.
I stared.
"No."
Massimo looked at me.
"No what?"
"There were fourteen."
"According to the delivery records, your company brought fifteen."
I shook my head.
"Then somebody made a mistake."
He enlarged the final entry.
A signature appeared.
Sophie Miller.
It was almost perfect.
Almost.
Except the final letter curved the wrong way.
"That's not my signature," I whispered.
Massimo didn't seem surprised.
"Which means someone added a crate under your name."
"What was inside it?"
"We're going to find out."
An alarm sounded softly from his phone.
He read the message.
Then he turned the screen toward me.
A photograph had arrived from the loading dock.
It showed a large white shipping crate bearing my company's logo.
Beneath the logo was a printed label.
ROMANO FOUNDATION — GRAND BALLROOM.
And below that, in black marker, someone had written:
OPEN ONLY AFTER MIDNIGHT.
I felt suddenly nauseated.
"That's not our packaging."
Massimo leaned closer.
"How do you know?"
"Because our crates have green corner markings. And we never write instructions like that on the outside."
His phone vibrated again.
This time, the message was from Enzo.
The crate was empty.
Its contents had already been removed.
I stared at Massimo.
"Where did they take whatever was inside?"
His expression was grim.
"That's the question."
He stepped toward the bedroom door.
"You're staying somewhere secure tonight. Tomorrow morning, I want you to inspect every floral installation in this house."
I shook my head.
"No. Absolutely not. I didn't sign up for this."
"Someone used your business to get something past my security."
"Then call the police."
"I intend to involve the authorities once we know what we're dealing with."
I blinked.
That wasn't the answer I had expected.
Massimo held my gaze.
"Whatever you think about me, Sophie, I don't intend to let someone turn my family gathering into a crime scene."
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed a final time.
He glanced at the message.
And all the color seemed to leave his face.
"What?" I whispered.
He showed me the screen.
It was another photograph.
This one had been taken inside my flower shop.
My office.
My desk.
My father's old photograph hanging above the filing cabinet.
Someone had drawn a red circle around his face.
Underneath were six words.
SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT HE SAW.
I stared at the picture.
May you like
My father had been dead for eight years.
And somehow, the danger inside Massimo Romano's mansion had just reached all the way back to the night he died.
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