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

I found Luca in my father's old study.

He had poured himself a drink. He didn't touch it.

"Arthur said my name?" he asked.

"Before he lost consciousness."

Luca laughed once, without humor. "And that's enough for you?"

"Tonight, nothing is enough. That's the problem."

He turned toward the window. Rain streaked the glass behind him.

"You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Decide that fear is proof."

I stepped closer. "Someone tried to kill Ethan."

"He's my godson."

"Then help me. Where were you from seven-ten to seven-twenty-five?"

His jaw flexed.

"Upstairs."

"Doing what?"

He didn't answer.

"Luca."

"I was in your office."

A cold pressure settled behind my ribs.

"Why?"

He reached inside his jacket slowly and placed a folded document on the desk.

It was a copy of Elena's family trust.

Ethan's name was highlighted.

"I found this in Arthur's briefcase last week," Luca said. "I didn't understand why he had pulled the old trust. So I checked your office for the original."

I scanned the page.

On Ethan's eighth birthday, control of Elena's inherited voting shares transferred into a protected trust for him. Until he turned twenty-five, I would serve as trustee.

If Ethan died before the transfer, the shares would pass to Elena's surviving designated family beneficiary.

I looked up.

"Who?"

Luca's face had gone pale.

"Arthur changed the beneficiary attachment after Elena died."

"To who?"

"That's what I was trying to find out."

I grabbed the document. "You expect me to believe you broke into my office to protect me?"

"Your office isn't exactly Fort Knox to your brother."

"You had camera access."

"So did Vincent. So did you."

"And your cuff links carried the same mark as the vial."