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Daddy’s little pet.

My everything.

And I would never, ever let her go.

CHAPTER 18

Alessia

A few days later…

It was the day of Amy and Aleksei’s fundraiser at the gallery, the one that we already knew Dmitry Volkov was attending and where I was going to be presented to Boston society as Raffaele Bellandi’s daughter for the very first time.

To put it bluntly, I was nervous.

The gown I’d settled on was deep green silk, nearly black until the light touched it, with long sleeves, a fitted waist, and a narrow standing collar that covered the black leather fastened around my throat. The back dipped low enough to keep it from looking severe, and the skirt followed my hips before falling in a clean line to the floor.

Amy adjusted the fabric at my neck, making certain the hidden collar remained accessible beneath the overlap of silk. Behind her, Riley had turned the private office above the gallery into a staging room filled with flowers, jewelry cases, coffee, champagne, and enough food to survive a winter siege. Sloane sat on the edge of Aleksei’s desk editing a statement on her phone, while Kit stood near the window with one finger pressed to the small earpiece hidden beneath her hair.

“Do we have to call me Raffaele Bellandi’s previously private American daughter?” I asked.

Sloane didn’t look up. “It sounds better than secret love child.”

“It sounds like I was stored in a vault.”

“Technically, your inheritance was.”

“Not helping,” I said, rolling my eyes playfully.

Sloane deleted something, then read the revised line aloud. “‘Alessia Caruso, daughter of Sicilian businessman and philanthropist Raffaele Bellandi, will make her first formal Boston appearance in support of the Amara Preservation Fund.’”

“Philanthropist?” Riley asked, while chewing half a croissant.

Sloane shrugged. “People become philanthropists when they donate enough money to make everyone stop asking where it came from.”

“That describes half the room tonight,” Amy said.

“Only half?” Kit asked.

Riley pressed the rest of the croissant into my hand. “Eat.”

“I’m wearing silk fitted over body armor,” I whined.

“Then chew carefully.” Riley winked.

* * *

The gallery looked different at night.

During the day, the high white walls and polished concrete floors made it feel like a mausoleum. Tonight, candlelight softened the hard edges. Tall arrangements of dark greenery and cream roses stood between sculptures. Champagne moved through the room on silver trays. A string quartet played near the front windows while Boston’s wealthy, politically useful, and criminally adjacent drifted between paintings they pretended to understand.

Amy had arranged every minute of the presentation. The largest works drew people through the public rooms in a slow circle while smaller, more intimate pieces created pockets where conversations could occur without appearing private. Nothing blocked a single camera. A mirrored steel sculpture near the center of the gallery gave security a reflected view of all three entrances and exits.

Riley greeted donors as if they had entered her home, remembered which man’s wife had recently undergone surgery, and redirected anyone who became too curious about the increased security presence by placing a drink in his hand and asking about his children. Within twenty minutes, she had convinced a federal judge, two Irish businessmen, and a museum director that the additional guards were part of Aleksei’s usual paranoia.

Sloane handled the press near the entrance. She stood beneath the event logo in a silver dress, smiling as though every question had been anticipated and edited before the reporter opened his mouth.

Kit watched from behind a tablet disguised as the event’s guest-management system.