I couldn't breathe. The weight of Matteo’s hand on my shoulder was paralyzing.

I handed him the drawing.

Matteo took the parchment. His dark eyes scanned the frantic crayon strokes. The falling man. The blonde figure on the balcony. The words at the bottom.

I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten until they looked like carved stone. He didn't explode. He didn't shout. The dangerous stillness that defined him simply deepened.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.

"It was in Alessandra’s clutch," I whispered. "Mr. Romano, I didn't mean to pry, but—"

"You saved my mother’s life tonight, Claire. You have earned the right to pry." He folded the drawing and placed it carefully into the breast pocket of his coat. "Luca."

The security chief stepped into the foyer.

"We aren't taking my mother to the hotel," Matteo said. "Take her to the safe house in Lake Forest. Put four men on the perimeter. No one goes in or out."

"Understood," Luca said. "What about you, Boss?"

"I’m going for a drive. Claire is coming with me."

"Mr. Romano," I started, my heart racing. "I’m just a maid. I shouldn't—"

"You’re two years into a nursing degree," Matteo interrupted, turning to face me. "And you are the only person in this house who noticed a switched label. Whoever Eleanor Vale is, she is sick. And whoever drew this picture is with her. I need someone who understands medical files, and I need someone I can trust."

He held my gaze.

"Can I trust you, Claire?"

I thought of my father, working grueling hours just to keep our heat on. I thought of my brother’s tuition. And then I thought of Mrs. Romano, a kind woman who had always treated me with dignity, nearly being poisoned in her own home.

"Yes," I said.

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a black armored SUV. The rain had started again, blurring the city lights into streaks of neon against the tinted windows.

Matteo sat across from me. He had a tablet in his hand.

"Luca found her," Matteo said, not looking up from the screen. "Eleanor Vale isn't in a rehab center. She’s in a private psychiatric care facility two hours north of the city. St. Jude’s."

"A psychiatric facility?" I asked. "But the medication—"

"Was a lie," Matteo finished. "Or part of a much darker truth."

He handed me the tablet.

On the screen was a patient profile. Eleanor Vale. Thirty-two years old. Admitted two years ago.

The date of admission was exactly one day after Matteo’s father died.

I scrolled down. My breath hitched.

Under the section for 'Authorized Visitors and Guardians,' there was only one name. Alessandra Vale.

But beneath that, in a smaller medical note, was a detail that made the pieces shift.

Patient was admitted with her dependent minor. Ward of the facility per guardian instructions.

"There’s a child," I said softly.

"A boy," Matteo said, looking out the window into the rain. "Six years old. His name is Leo."

We drove in silence the rest of the way. The transition from the sprawling city to the dense, dark woods of northern Illinois felt like descending into a different world.

St. Jude’s was a massive, gothic-style stone building surrounded by high wrought-iron fences. It looked less like a hospital and more like a fortress.

Matteo didn't bother with the intercom. He instructed his driver to ram the gates.

The heavy steel groaned and gave way as the SUV pushed through. We parked directly in front of the glass entry doors.

"Stay close to me," Matteo said as we stepped into the freezing rain.

The night staff was panicked, but Matteo’s presence—and the two armed men flanking us—ensured they didn't call the police. The head nurse, a pale, nervous woman, led us to the locked residential wing on the third floor.

"Ms. Vale is heavily sedated, sir," the nurse stammered, unlocking a heavy wooden door. "Her sister insists on a strict regimen."

"Wake her up," Matteo commanded.

The room was sparse, smelling of antiseptic and stale linen. On the narrow bed lay a woman who looked like a ghost of Alessandra. She had the same bone structure, but her blonde hair was dull and thinning, and her skin was translucent.

But it wasn't Eleanor who caught my attention.

Sitting in the corner of the room, tucked beneath a thin blanket, was a little boy. He had dark, messy hair and large, terrified brown eyes. He was clutching a sketchbook to his chest.

Matteo walked slowly toward the boy. The imposing mafia boss seemed to shrink himself, softening his edges.

"Hello, Leo," Matteo said softly.

The boy didn't answer. He just pulled the sketchbook tighter.

I walked over, kneeling so I was at eye level with him. "Hi, Leo. My name is Claire. I like your drawings. You’re very talented."

Leo looked at me, then down at his book.

As he shifted his grip, his sleeve pulled back.

Wrapped loosely around the child’s small wrist was a heavy, gold pocket watch.

I recognized it instantly. I had dusted the mahogany box it belonged in a hundred times. It was Matteo’s father’s watch. The one he was wearing the night he died. The one the police said was lost in the ambulance.

Matteo saw it too. His breath caught audibly.

"Leo," Matteo said, his voice trembling for the first time. "Where did you get that watch?"

The boy looked up at Matteo. His voice was small, but perfectly clear.

"My daddy gave it to me," Leo said. "Before Aunt Alessandra pushed him."