My husband told me to “stop being dramatic” while I was walking out of the hospital carrying our three-year-old daughter’s ashes.

The convoy pulled into the long, gated driveway of an estate located in the quiet, heavily wooded suburbs of Lake Forest. High concrete walls topped with security cameras surrounded the property, and armed guards in dark coats patrolled the perimeter with trained German Shepherds.

The house itself was a sprawling modern fortress of glass, black steel, and dark granite.

Dominic led Maeve through the heavy oak front doors into a soaring, two-story foyer. He handed his coat to a waiting butler and motioned toward a grand leather armchair near a massive stone fireplace.

"Sit," Dominic said. "Drink something warm. You're shivering."

Maeve sat down cautiously on the edge of the chair, feeling entirely out of place in her stained canvas trousers and worn canvas sneakers against the pristine cream carpet. A housemaid arrived minutes later, placing a tray with hot tea, fresh pastries, and clean towels on the table beside her.

"Thank you," Maeve said automatically in smooth, polite Calabrian Italian to the maid.

The maid gasped in shock, looked at Dominic, then bowed her head quickly and hurried out of the room.

Dominic stood near the hearth, leaning against the mantelpiece with a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. "You surprise my staff, Maeve. They aren't used to being spoken to in their hometown dialects by guests."

"Respect doesn't cost anything, Mr. Rossi," Maeve said, picking up the teacup and warming her hands against the porcelain.

"Call me Dominic," he said. "In this house, for as long as you're here, you're not an employee. You're a guest of the Rossi family."

"And how long will I be here?" she asked directly.

"Until we dismantle Gregory Volk's entire network," Dominic said, his face hardening. "Silvio’s betrayal wasn't an isolated incident. He was working with a larger syndicate that extends into New York, Montreal, and Marseille. Gregory was just the enforcement arm. The real brain behind the operation hasn't shown his face yet."

He stepped closer to her, setting his glass down. "Tomorrow, I am convening an emergency council of the five regional leaders at my private estate in Wisconsin. Every one of them will bring their own interpreters, their own lawyers, and their own hidden agendas. I need someone in that room who can hear what isn't being said."

"You want me to be your ghost," Maeve said.

"I want you to be my ears," Dominic corrected. "I will pay you fifty thousand dollars for the weekend. Cash. Cleaned, untraceable funds."

Maeve paused, her cup hovering halfway to her lips. Fifty thousand dollars. It was more money than she had made in three years of scrubbing floors, lifting heavy trash bins, and ruining her health. It was enough to pay off her mother's lingering medical debts, fix her destroyed knees, and buy a small, quiet apartment far away from cold city basements.

"And what happens if I refuse?" she asked gently.

Dominic looked her straight in the eyes. "If you refuse, I will give you ten thousand dollars right now, put you on a private jet to any city in the country, and guarantee your safety. I don't force people who save my brother’s life."

Maeve looked down at her hands—rough, scarred, calloused hands that had worked every single day since she was fourteen years old. She had spent her entire life hiding in corners, watching powerful people step over her as if she were made of air.

For the first time in her life, someone was asking her to stand up and use the mind her mother had fought so hard to cultivate.

"Fifty thousand," Maeve said. "Plus medical coverage for my knee."