The little girl arrived at the iron gates of Bellweather Manor during the worst rainstorm Hudson County had seen all autumn.

Sophie Moretti sat on the bottom step of the grand marble staircase, her arms wrapped around her knees.

She wore a dark green school blazer over a pleated skirt, her wet loafers resting on the stone flags. Her dark hair was pulled back into an untidy ponytail, damp strands clinging to her temples. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from a night of tears, but her chin was held high with that stubborn, unmistakable Moretti defiance that ran through all of their blood.

Beside her sat a single canvas duffel bag.

When Luca’s shoes clicked against the marble, she didn't flinch. She looked up, her expression a mix of shame, defiance, and utter exhaustion.

“I didn't know,” Sophie said. Her voice was cracked, raw from screaming at her parents in the driveway at dawn.

Luca stopped at the base of the stairs, ten feet away. He kept his hands in his pockets. “You didn't know what, Sophie?”

“I didn't know about the money,” she said, her voice shaking violently. “I didn't know about Jersey City. I thought... my dad told me that Evelyn left because she didn't want the life. He told me she took a settlement and moved to California to marry an architect.”

Luca remained silent, letting the echo of her words settle into the cavernous hall.

“He told me the trust was mine because you didn't want children,” Sophie continued, tears spilling over her lower lids, running unchecked down her pale cheeks. “He told me that if I took the maritime seats, I would be protecting the family from Brooklyn. He said you were too distracted to lead.”

“And you believed him?” Luca asked softly.

“He’s my father!” Sophie yelled, her voice breaking against the vaulted ceiling. “What was I supposed to do? Call him a liar? Search his desk?”

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, racking sobs.

“When that little girl walked in last night,” Sophie whispered through her fingers, “with those broken boots... and the plastic bag... I looked at my dad’s face. And I saw it. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't confused. He was *afraid*.”

She lowered her hands, looking at Luca with absolute misery.

“I told him this morning that if he took that money, he was a thief. And he slapped me.” She turned her head slightly, revealing a faint, red welt rising across the line of her right cheekbone. “He told me I was ungrateful. So I took my bag and got out of the car.”

Luca’s eyes drifted to the red mark on her skin.

Something ancient, dark, and lethal settled behind his ribs.

He walked over to the stairs, stepped up two risers, and sat down beside his cousin.

Sophie flinched slightly, but Luca didn't shout. He didn't pull away. He reached into his pocket, took out a clean linen handkerchief, and pressed it gently into her cold, trembling fingers.

“Your father is a coward,” Luca said quietly. “He has always been a coward. When we were boys, if he broke a window with a baseball, he would run into the cellar and hide behind the coal chute until my father took the blame.”

Sophie wiped her cheeks with the linen, sniffing hard. “What am I going to do, Luca? I don't have anywhere to go. They’ve cancelled my cards. My mother took the keys to the apartment in Manhattan.”

“You’re going to finish your school year,” Luca told her, his voice brooking no argument. “You’re going to sit for your examinations in May. And then you are going to go to Columbia, or Boston, or wherever you want, and you are going to study international maritime law.”

Sophie looked at him, astonished. “Why?”

“Because,” Luca said, turning to look toward the conservatory where Mila’s soft laughter could be heard faintly through the heavy glass, “in ten years, my daughter is going to need a lawyer who knows where the bodies are buried and how to keep the ships moving without asking permission from Brooklyn.”

Sophie let out a wet, half-strangled laugh. “You want me to represent her?”

“I want you to be her cousin,” Luca said. “I want you to teach her how to tie her shoes so they don't split at the toes. I want you to tell her about her grandfather before he became a statue in a three-piece suit. And if your father ever calls your phone again, you give it to me.”

Sophie looked down at the handkerchief in her lap, then leaned her head against Luca’s shoulder.

She had not done that since she was eight years old, riding on the back of his jet ski on Lake Hopatcong before the wars with the southern crews had turned every family dinner into an armed perimeter.

“She’s really yours, isn't she?” Sophie murmured.