The man in the mirror did not move immediately.

He stood in the doorway, his reflection framed by the dark mahogany of Mrs. Higgins’s wardrobe.

It was Dino.

He was one of Silvio DeLuca’s personal bodyguards, a man who spent more time at Silvio’s estate in Long Island than here at the TriBeCa penthouse.

His presence here, in the private quarters of the head housekeeper, confirmed everything.

The conspiracy went deep, reaching from the highest ranks of the family down to the nursery.

“Lose something, Jenkins?” Dino asked.

His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to rattle the perfume bottles on the vanity.

I slowly pulled my hand back from the safe.

Using my hip, I nudged the false panel of the vanity compartment.

It slid shut with a soft, barely audible click.

The letters from Silvio were already stuffed deep inside the lining of my apron pocket, pressing hard against my ribs.

I turned around to face him, forcing my expression to remain blank.

“Mrs. Higgins asked me to find her spare set of keys for the pantry,” I said.