“Exactly.”

“And I paid you.”

Dante shook his head.

“It was never enough.”

There it was.

Not grief.

Not jealousy of Sofia personally.

Entitlement.

He had looked at a sick nine-year-old child and seen an obstacle between himself and future ownership.

Vincent felt physically ill.

“You poisoned her for money.”

“No.”

Dante’s voice rose.

“I wanted her treatment changed.”

“What?”

“I wanted her transferred.”

“That makes no sense.”

Dante looked toward the journal.

“Mercer told me small doses would make the chemo look ineffective.”

Vincent stopped breathing.

“You weren’t trying to kill her.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Make you desperate.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“For what?”

“To send her to Switzerland.”

Vincent remembered.

Dante had suggested an experimental clinic outside Geneva.

Repeatedly.

Aggressively.

Vincent had almost agreed.

“What was in Switzerland?”

Dante closed his eyes.

Aldo whispered:

“An asset transfer.”

Vincent looked at him.

“What?”

Aldo had gone pale.

“The clinic required an international medical trust for payment.”

Vincent understood slowly.

The proposed trust documents.

He had never signed them because Sofia became too unstable to travel.

“If I signed…”

“Dante would have become co-trustee,” Aldo said.

Vincent stared at his brother.

“You were trying to gain control of Sofia’s trust.”

Dante said nothing.

“And the poison?”

“Supposed to make her worse.”

“Not kill her.”

“No.”

Vincent’s voice broke.

“But it did.”

Dante looked away.

That was the truth.

Not a carefully planned murder.

Something almost more pathetic.

A greedy scheme built around making a sick child sicker.

Then a dosage error.

An already fragile heart.

Death.

Vincent looked at the journal again.

Another entry.

NOVEMBER 24.

Confronted Mercer.

He admits Dante paid him.

Says doses were “controlled.”

I told him Sofia could die.

He said that was not the plan.

Vincent almost collapsed.

Clara covered her mouth.

Aldo stepped closer.

The final entry concerning Sofia was dated the night before she died.

NOVEMBER 26.

Sofia asked me if her father knows Uncle Dante is making her sick.

I told her no.

She said, “Good.

Daddy gets angry when people hurt me.”

Vincent could not see the page anymore.

He turned away.

For seven years he had remembered his daughter as weak.

Thin.

Feverish.

Afraid of death.

But even then, Sofia had been protecting him.

A nine-year-old child worried what grief might turn her father into.

Vincent sat down.

No one spoke.

Then Ellie walked toward him.

Clara almost stopped her.

Vincent looked up.

Ellie held one of Sofia’s gold wish coins.

She must have picked it up from the table.

“You forgot the wishes.”

Vincent stared.

“What?”

“You said one wish.”

Her logic was imperfect.

Her intention was not.

Vincent opened his hand.

Ellie placed the coin inside.

“What should I wish for?”

She thought seriously.

Then:

“Mommy doesn’t say sorry anymore.”

Clara started crying.

Vincent looked at Dante.

Then at the journal.

Then at Sofia’s photograph.

Finally he said:

“That sounds like a good wish.”

Police were called.

Not Vincent’s private men.

Not family intermediaries.

Police.

That decision shocked Dante more than anything else.

“You’re handing me to them?”

Vincent looked at his brother.

“Yes.”

“You don’t do that.”

“I do tonight.”

“What about the family?”

Vincent’s expression hardened.

“Sofia was family.”

Dante had no answer.

He was taken away before midnight.

Dr.

Mercer’s name was immediately forwarded to investigators.

Aldo began locating old hospital staff.

Rose Romano’s journal was photographed, preserved, and turned over through counsel.

Everything changed.

But not all at once.

Three days later, Vincent received a call.

Aldo entered the study while Clara and Ellie were packing.

Vincent frowned.

“Packing?”

Clara looked embarrassed.

“I assumed we should leave.”

“Why?”

“The investigation.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She looked toward Ellie.

“I don’t think this house is good for her.”

Vincent understood.

Too many guards.

Too many whispered conversations.

Too much grief.

He nodded.

“Where will you go?”

“My cousin has a room in Queens.”

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated.

Every instinct told him to solve the problem.

Apartment.

Money.

Protection.

But Clara had spent years apologizing because people around her made decisions over her head.

So he asked:

“Do you need anything?”

She looked surprised.

Then:

“No.”

He nodded.

“All right.”

That surprised her more.

Then Aldo interrupted.

“We found Mercer.”

Vincent’s expression changed.

“Where?”

“Arizona.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Did he confess?”

“Not yet.”

“Then what?”

Aldo looked toward Clara.

“He says Rose misunderstood one thing.”

Clara stiffened.

“What thing?”

Aldo hesitated.

“The digoxin didn’t come from the candy.”

Vincent stared.

“What?”

“The candy wrappers tested positive because Sofia handled them after taking something else.”

“What else?”

Aldo looked at Vincent.

“A liquid medication.”

Vincent frowned.

“Sofia had dozens.”

“Yes.”

“But Mercer says Dante never administered it.”

“Then who did?”

Aldo looked down.

“That’s the problem.”

Vincent stood.

“Who?”

“According to Mercer, the person giving Sofia the contaminated medicine was someone in the household.”

The room went silent.

Clara whispered:

“Who?”

Aldo looked toward the family staircase.

“Mercer says Dante paid one of the Moretti staff.”

Vincent’s chest tightened.

“Name.”

Aldo met his eyes.

“Maria Bellini.”

Vincent froze.

Maria had been Sofia’s nanny.

She had practically raised her.

She had died five years ago.

And before her death, she had left everything she owned to one person.

Clara Romano.

Clara stared at Aldo.

“No.”

Vincent turned slowly toward her.

“What?”

Clara stepped backward.

“I didn’t know Maria.”

Aldo’s expression was grim.

“According to her will, she knew you.”

And suddenly the conspiracy around Sofia’s death reached beyond Dante.

Straight into Clara’s family again.

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