The gunfire outside our pillar was deafening, but my eyes were locked on the photograph.

It had landed face up.

It was a picture of Sarah.

She was lying in a hospital bed, looking pale but radiant, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a pink blanket.

Luca, kneeling beside me to reload his weapon, glanced down.

He froze.

He reached out and picked up the photo.

“This was taken the day Sophie was born,” Luca whispered.

But his thumb rubbed against the edge of the photo.

It wasn’t just a family picture.

On the back, written in Sarah’s elegant handwriting, were two sentences.

“Carlo knows about the adoption. Keep her safe.”

I stared at the words.

Adoption.

Sophie wasn’t Sarah’s biological daughter.

Suddenly, everything made terrifying sense.

Sarah couldn’t have children. They had adopted a baby in secret to protect her from the mafia's bloodline politics.

Carlo hadn’t just killed Sarah because of union money.

He killed her because he knew Sophie wasn’t a blood heir. He wanted Vanessa to marry Luca to produce a "true" mafia bloodline and seize control of the Moretti empire.

“He knew,” Luca breathed.

The realization shifted something fundamental in his eyes.

The grief was gone. Only absolute, terrifying clarity remained.

“Claire,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a gravelly calm.

“Yes, sir.”

“Take Sophie down the servant stairs to the garage. Get in my black SUV. It’s armored.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Sophie cried, grabbing his jacket.

Luca pulled her in, kissing her forehead fiercely.

“You are my daughter,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Blood doesn’t make you mine. Love does. And nobody takes what is mine.”

He handed me the keys.

“Go. Now.”

I scooped Sophie into my arms.

As I turned to run down the dark servant corridor, a figure stepped out from the shadows, blocking the doorway.

It was one of Carlo’s men.

He raised his gun at us.

Before I could even scream, a massive hand grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him into the brick wall.

It was Marcus.

The driver.

He looked at me, his face bruised and exhausted.

“Go,” Marcus grunted. “I owe her mother.”

As I ran past him, Marcus dropped a small, heavy velvet box into my apron pocket.