the bartender fed the silent girl every night until her crime boss father walked in. but the child had chosen josie for a reason no one in boston could survive.

The Voss estate in Chestnut Hill was a fortress of grey stone, sprawling iron gates, and tall oak trees that swayed ominously in the winter wind.

Josie sat in the back of the armored Mercedes, holding Mila on her lap. The little girl had fallen asleep ten minutes into the drive, her head resting against Josie’s chest, her small hand still tucked securely into Josie’s pocket.

Constantine sat across from them in the rear-facing seat, a glass of amber scotch resting untouched in his hand. He stared out the rain-streaked window at the passing city lights.

“Who wears the pin, Constantine?” Josie asked softly, breaking the long silence.

Constantine didn't turn his head immediately. “The silver crest is reserved for the inner circle of the Voss Syndicate. There are only five people in North America who possess one.”

“Five?” Josie echoed.

“My uncle, Nikolai Voss,” Constantine listed, his voice cold and analytical. “My underboss, Viktor. My chief financial officer, Julian Cross. My late wife’s brother, Damian Vance. And myself.”

“Damian Vance?” Josie repeated, picking up on the name. “Your wife’s brother?”

Constantine finally turned to look at her. “Damian never forgave me for Elena’s death. He believed I wasn't protecting her well enough. He left Boston two years ago to run our shipping operations in Montreal.”

“And what about the cigar smell?” Josie pressed, remembering Tate’s dying confession in the pub. “Mint and expensive cigars?”

Constantine’s jaw clenched. “Julian Cross smokes custom Cuban cigars infused with wintergreen oil. He’s been my financial advisor for twelve years.”

The Mercedes pulled up to the grand front entrance of the estate. The heavy oak doors were opened by a lined-faced housekeeper named Mrs. Gable, who wept silently as she saw Mila sleeping peacefully in Josie’s arms.

“Thank God,” Mrs. Gable whispered, wiping her eyes with her apron. “We’ve been sick with worry, Mr. Voss.”

“Prepare the guest suite next to Mila’s room for Miss Morrow,” Constantine instructed as he led them inside the cavernous, marble-floored foyer. “She will be staying with us indefinitely.”

Mrs. Gable nodded quickly. “Right away, sir. I’ve prepared warm broth and fresh bread for the young lady.”

Josie carried Mila up the grand winding staircase, guided by Mrs. Gable into a massive, warm bedroom decorated in soft pastels, filled with plush toys and a high canopy bed. She gently laid the sleeping child under the duvet, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

As Josie turned to leave, she noticed a framed photograph on the nightstand.

She picked it up. In the photo, a radiant woman with dark curls and laughing eyes held a tiny baby Mila in her arms. Beside them stood Constantine, looking younger, his face free of the deep lines of grief that currently carved his cheeks. Pinned to his lapel was the silver crest.

Standing behind them in the photograph was another man—a handsome man with slicked-back silver hair, wearing a dark suit and holding a long cigar between his fingers.

Josie flipped the frame over. Written on the back in elegant cursive were the words:

The Voss Family Reunion – Beacon Hill Club, 2021. Constantine, Elena, Julian, and Nikolai.

Josie’s blood ran cold.