Brielle stared at the barrel of the gun.

The arrogant, controlling woman who had ordered me to hide a deaf child’s hands just hours ago was now trembling violently.

“Adrian, please,” she begged, tears spilling over her perfect makeup. “It wasn't my idea! Thomas owed the Chicago bosses. They were going to kill him! They forced me to give them the shipping routes!”

“You sold out my family to save yours,” Adrian stated coldly. “And then you tried to send my children away so I wouldn't notice the money disappearing.”

“I just wanted a fresh start!” Brielle sobbed, backing toward the bed. “Sarah’s ghost is everywhere in this house! You never look at me the way you looked at her!”

“Because you are nothing like her,” Adrian said.

He didn't shoot her. He lowered the gun, a look of profound disgust washing over his face.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out two plane tickets. He tossed them onto the bed.

“One-way to Geneva,” Adrian said. “There’s a car waiting downstairs. It will take you to a private airstrip. You will get on that plane, and you will never set foot in the United States again. If you contact anyone in Chicago, or if I ever see your face again, I won't use the gun. I’ll let my men handle you.”

Brielle didn't argue. She snatched the tickets and her purse, practically running out of the bedroom. She didn't look back.

Adrian stood alone in the master bedroom, staring out the balcony doors at the dark estate.

The war was over. The betrayers had been excised.

I stood in the doorway, holding Owen and Lucy’s hands.

Adrian turned around. He looked exhausted, the weight of the night finally catching up to him.

He walked over to us. He knelt down in front of his children, pulling them both into a tight, desperate embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he signed to them, his hands slightly shaking. “I’m so sorry I let them make you feel unsafe. You are my home. Both of you.”

Lucy touched his cheek, wiping a stray tear from her father’s face.

“We’re okay, Dad,” she signed.

Adrian stood up and looked at me.

“Rachel. Marcus picked up your mother and daughter an hour ago. They are waiting for you in the guest wing. They’re safe.”

Relief washed over me so powerfully my knees nearly buckled. “Thank you, sir.”

“No,” Adrian corrected gently. “Thank you. You risked your life for my son tonight. You saw the truth when I was blind.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out Sarah’s gold watch.

He handed it to Lucy.

“Keep this safe,” he signed to his daughter. “It belongs to you now.”

He then looked back at me.

“You are no longer a maid in this house, Rachel.”

I frowned. “Sir, I need this job—”

“You have a job,” Adrian interrupted softly. “As of tomorrow, you are the head of household operations. And you are my children’s permanent tutor and advocate. You will live in the guest house with your daughter, rent-free, with a salary that ensures you never have to worry about a Monday check clearing again.”

Tears pricked my eyes. It was more than a promotion; it was security for my child.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Adrian nodded. “Go see your daughter, Rachel.”

I walked down the long, quiet hallway toward the guest wing. The tension that had gripped my spine all night finally began to release.

I opened the door to the massive guest suite.

My mother was sitting on the sofa, drinking tea. My seven-year-old daughter, Maya, was fast asleep in the giant king-sized bed, surrounded by expensive pillows.

I walked over and kissed Maya’s forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. She was safe.

But as I pulled the blanket up to her chin, I noticed something resting on the bedside table.

It was a small, cream-colored envelope.

My name was written across the front in elegant, looping cursive.

I picked it up, my heart suddenly skipping a beat.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a single photograph.

It was a picture of my brother. My deaf brother, who had died in a hit-and-run accident five years ago. A case the police had never solved.

Written on the back of the photograph, in red ink, was one sentence:

He didn't die by accident, Rachel.

I dropped the photograph onto the floor, the blood rushing in my ears.

Answer One, Open Two.

The war in Adrian Marzano’s house was over.

But mine had just begun.

TITLE: THE MORNING SUN AND THE OPEN DOOR