She stepped into the dim light of the cellar, her cream-colored wool coat draped elegantly over her shoulders.

Her eyes swept over the room, lingering on Denise’s leather briefcase, Mrs. Bellamy’s frail form, and finally on me.

“And leave you down here with the dishwashers and the waitstaff?” Seraphina scoffed.

She walked closer, the scent of expensive French perfume cutting through the musty smell of old wine crates and wet stone.

“What is going on here, Nico?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain.

“Family business,” Nico said.

“This isn’t our family,” Seraphina said, pointing a manicured finger toward me. “This is Lila Wren’s girl.”

My hand clenched into a fist inside my apron pocket, my thumb pressing hard against the vibrating side of my phone.

Denise stepped closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine in the cramped space.

She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper against my ear.

“Harper, we need to talk,” Denise muttered, her eyes darting between Nico and Seraphina.

“Not now, Denise,” I whispered back, keeping my eyes on the Romanos.

“Now,” Denise insisted, her grip on my forearm tightening.