One second, the thirty-nine-year-old head of the Ferrara family sat beside the pool in his wheelchair, listening to three men argue about shipping contracts.
The next, his front caster struck uneven flagstone.
The chair tipped.
Santino disappeared backward into ten feet of blue water.
Nearly two hundred guests saw him fall.
Nobody moved.
Emily Taylor did.
The coffee tray hit the stone with a crash.
She ran.
“Emily!” someone shouted.
She jumped anyway.
Cold water swallowed her.
Her shoes dragged at her feet as she kicked downward. Through the blue haze she saw Santino at the bottom.
His wheelchair had landed upright.
His black suit jacket had twisted into the rear axle.
He was trapped.
Emily grabbed the fabric and pulled.
Nothing.
Santino looked directly at her.
No panic.
That frightened her more than panic would have.
She attacked the buttons of his jacket.
One.
Two.
Three.
Her lungs burned.
The jacket finally slipped from his shoulders.
Santino floated free.
Emily hooked one arm beneath his jaw and kicked upward.
When they reached the shallow steps, suddenly everyone wanted to help.
Rafe Lombardi, Santino's security chief, hauled his boss onto the flagstones.
A doctor rushed forward.
Emily crawled out alone.
She sat dripping beside the pool while Santino coughed twice.
“Give him room!” the doctor ordered.
Victoria Ferrara pushed through the crowd.
“Santino?”
He ignored her.
His dark eyes found Emily.
Then he looked around at the people who had stood motionless while he sank.
“Who told you that you weren’t allowed?”
Emily blinked.
“What?”
Santino wasn't really speaking to her.
Everyone understood.
One by one, people lowered their eyes.
Forty minutes later, Emily sat in the service kitchen with a towel around her shoulders.
Enzo Baron, the elderly household manager, entered.
“A transfer has been arranged.”
Emily frowned.
“Transfer?”
“Another Ferrara property. Same salary. Better hours.”
Victoria appeared behind him carrying a thick envelope.
“What you did today was extraordinary.”
She placed the envelope beside Emily’s tea.
Emily stared at it.
“Money?”
“A gesture of gratitude.”
Emily pushed it back.
“No, thank you.”
Victoria's smile tightened.
“You saved my brother.”
“That doesn't mean he owes me.”
“You misunderstand.”
“No. I think I understand perfectly.”
Wheels sounded in the corridor.
Santino entered wearing dry black clothes. His sleeves were rolled slightly, revealing dark tattoos along his forearms. Another tattoo disappeared beneath the left side of his collar.
Rafe followed several feet behind.
Santino saw the envelope.
Then Enzo.
“There’s been a mistake.”
Enzo stiffened. “Sir?”
“No transfer was approved.”
“Everything has already been arranged.”
“Undo it.”
Silence.
Santino looked at Emily.
“She stays.”
Victoria folded her arms.
“In what capacity?”
“My secretary.”
Emily almost dropped her tea.
“I’m sorry?”
“My office. My calendar. My correspondence.”
“You haven't asked me.”
For the first time that morning, something almost resembling amusement touched Santino's face.
“Would you accept?”
Emily looked at Victoria.
Then Enzo.
Then him.
“I’ll think about it.”
Rafe coughed to hide a laugh.
Santino turned his chair toward the door.
“Good.”
“That's not a yes.”
“I know.”
He stopped.
“Find her dry clothes.”
That evening Emily refused the Ferrara car.
She took two buses back to Providence in borrowed clothes and ruined nineteen-dollar shoes.
At eleven, she clocked into the laundromat where she worked nights.
Marisol glanced at her damp hair.
“Bad day?”
“Complicated.”
“Rich-people complicated?”
Emily began folding towels.
“You have no idea.”
Marisol watched her.
“You're smiling.”
Emily immediately stopped.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Emily looked down.
Because the truth was far more dangerous than Marisol knew.
For almost three years, Emily had been trying to get closer to the Ferrara family.
Now Santino Ferrara himself had opened the door.
And she still hadn't decided whether walking through it would finally give her the truth—
or destroy everything she had left.