A 3-Year-Old Slapped the Birthday Cake Out of His Hands—Seconds Later, the Mafia Boss Learned Someone Had Tried to Kill His Son

Luca didn't run.

That mattered.

He simply stared at the crescent engraved on the vial and said, "You think that's mine?"

"I think I've seen that mark on your cuff links."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wrists.

Black onyx.

No silver moons.

"I haven't worn Elena's cuff links in years."

"Where are they?"

His jaw tightened. "My apartment, I think."

"You think?"

"I don't inventory gifts from dead relatives, Dom."

The room heard that. Ethan did too.

Luca saw my face and regretted the sentence immediately.

"That came out wrong."

"Yeah. It did."

Detective Mara Quinn arrived twenty minutes later because somebody had called 911 before I locked the estate. She was forty-something, wore a rain-darkened coat over a plain suit, and had the tired eyes of someone who trusted evidence more than people.

She looked at the crowd, the ruined cake, the vial, then at me.

"Mr. Moretti."

"Detective."

"I hear you imprisoned a hundred witnesses."

"I kept a hundred suspects from leaving."

"Cute distinction. Unlock the doors."

I didn't move.

She stepped closer. "If you want me to find who targeted your son, don't make me spend the night deciding whether to arrest his father first."

I unlocked the doors.

Nobody left anyway.

Quinn separated witnesses and took Lily's statement with a child specialist on speaker. I watched from across the library while Sophia sat with her daughter.

"What did the man look like?" Quinn asked gently.

Lily frowned with enormous concentration. "Big."

"Big like Mr. Moretti?"

Lily looked at me, then shook her head. "No. Smaller big."

Quinn almost smiled.

"Hair?"

"Dark. Hat."

"Anything else?"

Lily rubbed her nose. "He smelled yucky. Like Papa's old coat."

Sophia went still.

"Your father?" Quinn asked.

Sophia answered before Lily could. "My husband smoked. He died two years ago."