I didn’t sleep.
At three in the morning, I sat on my bedroom floor surrounded by copies of my father’s financial records.
Lorenzo sat against the wall opposite me.
No suit jacket.
Sleeves rolled up.
Tie gone.
For once, Chicago’s most feared man looked exhausted.
“My father died in a car accident,” I said.
“That’s what the police report says.”
“You don’t believe it.”
“No.”
“Since when?”
“Tonight.”
I searched his face.
“If you’re protecting your family—”
“I’m protecting you.”
“I don’t need protecting from the truth.”
His expression tightened.
“I’m learning that.”
The folder told a fragmented story.
Eleven years earlier, my father had discovered money moving through Duca-connected construction companies.
But the transfers didn’t benefit Lorenzo’s branch of the family.
They flowed toward businesses controlled by Lorenzo’s uncle, Salvatore Duca, and an investment company named Northstar Capital.
“Your uncle?” I asked.
“Dead eight years.”
“How convenient.”
“Cancer.”
“Less convenient.”
Lorenzo almost smiled.
Then I found another name.
Ethan Cole.
I stopped breathing.
“No.”
Lorenzo leaned forward.
“What?”
I turned the document.
Ethan’s name appeared beneath Northstar Capital as a junior financial analyst seven years earlier.
My ex-fiancé.
The man who had copied my apartment key.
The man who inspected my mail.
The man who always asked about Dad’s old boxes.
Suddenly memories changed shape.
“Ethan used to ask about my father’s papers.”
Lorenzo went still.
“What exactly did he ask?”
“He said old tax records should be shredded. That identity thieves could use them.”
“Did you?”
“No. Dad’s boxes are in storage above my bakery.”
Lorenzo was already standing.
“We’re going to Milwaukee.”
We left before sunrise.
The drive should have taken ninety minutes.
It felt like nine hours.
When we reached my bakery, the front door was open.
My heart dropped.
“No.”
Lorenzo caught my arm.
“Stay behind me.”
The café had been destroyed.
Chairs overturned.
Cabinets opened.
Flour covered the floor.
My display case was shattered.
Someone had gone upstairs.
My father’s boxes were gone.
I stood in the middle of the wreckage.
“This is my life.”
Lorenzo said nothing.
“This was mine.”
He came closer.
Not touching.
Waiting.
I stepped into him.
His arms closed around me.
For a man everyone called intimidating, Lorenzo knew how to hold someone without making them feel trapped.
I cried against his shirt.
Not because of the broken glass.
Because someone had reached backward eleven years and stolen my father from me again.
Then a voice came from the doorway.
“Amelia?”
I froze.
Ethan.
Of course.
Perfect hair.
Expensive coat.
Concern arranged carefully across his handsome face.
“What happened?”
Lorenzo’s arms tightened.
Ethan saw him.
His expression changed.
“Who’s this?”
I almost laughed.
“You know who he is.”
“I’ve seen pictures.”
“Why are you here?”
“I heard the alarm company called you.”
“How?”
“I’m still an emergency contact.”
“No, you’re not.”
His silence lasted half a second too long.
Lorenzo noticed.
So did I.
Ethan looked at him.
“Could we have a minute?”
“No,” Lorenzo said.
“I was asking Amelia.”
“And Amelia is staying where I can see her.”
Ethan smiled.
There it was.
The same smile he used before saying something cruel politely.
“You always did choose complicated men, Amelia.”
“I chose one complicated man. Before that I chose you.”
Marco choked behind us.
I loved Marco sometimes.
Ethan’s eyes hardened.
Then he looked at my body.
Just for a second.
That familiar downward glance.
Lorenzo saw it.
“Look at her face when she’s speaking to you.”
The room went quiet.
Ethan laughed nervously.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
I touched Lorenzo’s arm.
Not because I was protecting Ethan.
Because Lorenzo didn’t need to fight this battle.
I did.
“You don’t get to inspect me anymore,” I said.
Ethan stared.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
“Amelia, I’m worried about you.”
“No. You’re worried about something.”
His mask slipped.
“What does that mean?”
“My father.”
Color left his face.
There.
Tiny.
But enough.
Lorenzo saw it too.
Ethan recovered quickly.
“Your father’s been dead eleven years.”
“I didn’t tell you what about him.”
Silence.
Then Ethan stepped backward.
“I have a meeting.”
“Of course you do.”
He left.
Marco followed.
I turned toward Lorenzo.
“He knows.”
“Yes.”
“Can we prove it?”
“Not yet.”
Then one of my employees arrived.
Maria had worked with me for six years.
She cried when she saw the bakery.
While helping her clear broken glass, she mentioned something.
“Your dad’s old recipe tin is still here.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The blue one. You moved it into the office last Christmas.”
I ran.
Inside my desk was a dented blue tin.
Dad used to keep recipe cards inside it even though he couldn’t cook.
I opened it.
Recipes.
Pancakes.
Chili.
Banana bread.
Then I noticed numbers written on the backs.
Account numbers.
Dates.
Initials.
My father hadn’t hidden his evidence in the storage boxes.
He had hidden it inside the one thing nobody would consider important.
Bad recipes.
Lorenzo looked over my shoulder.
“Your father was smarter than they thought.”
My throat tightened.
“He usually was.”
The records connected Northstar Capital to dozens of transactions.
Then we found the biggest one.
Thirty-two million dollars.
Transferred three days before my father died.
The authorization contained two signatures.
Salvatore Duca.
And another man.
Vincent Bellini.
Marco’s father.
I looked toward the front of the bakery.
Marco stood beside the broken window.
Lorenzo followed my gaze.
Neither of us spoke.
Because suddenly the missing security footage had a possible explanation.
Marco had administrator access.
Marco knew the house.
Marco knew Lorenzo better than anyone.
And Marco’s father had been involved in the conspiracy that might have killed mine.