I spent my first morning in Dante Moretti's mansion arguing with a dress.

The dress was winning.

Its black skirt ended above my knees. The white apron had ridiculous ruffles.

There was even a matching headband, which I considered a personal declaration of war.

"Mr. Bell," I called through the dressing-room door. "There has been a mistake."

"No mistake, sir."

"This is a costume."

"It is the uniform selected for your position."

"By a lunatic."

A pause followed. "That is not a description I would use within hearing distance of Mr. Moretti."

I glared at my reflection.

The uniform fit perfectly. That was somehow the most insulting part.

I pulled on the stockings, then immediately regretted every decision that had brought me here.

When I stepped outside, Mr. Bell politely examined the ceiling.

"You look presentable," he said.

"I look like a bakery decoration."

"Breakfast service begins in ten minutes."

The mansion occupied an entire block behind high iron gates.

Inside, marble floors reflected chandeliers large enough to crush a car.

Armed guards stood at every entrance. Cameras watched every hallway.

Apparently, the city's most feared criminal required excellent housekeeping.

Mr. Bell handed me a silver tray.

"Coffee. Black. No sugar."

"Does he take arrogance on the side?"

"He supplies that himself."

I almost liked Mr. Bell.

The dining room held Dante and three men in tailored suits.

Their conversation stopped when I entered.

One man blinked. Another hid a grin behind his glass.

Dante looked up from his tablet.

His gaze moved over my uniform without any attempt at discretion.

"Good morning, Jamie."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Sound so pleased with yourself."

The youngest guest laughed. Dante didn't look at him.

"Coffee," Dante said.

I placed the cup in front of him hard enough to rattle the saucer.

"Your coffee."

He waited.

I waited harder.

"You forgot something," he said.

"A spoon?"

"My title."

I could feel the other men listening.

"Your coffee," I said through my teeth, "Sir."

"Much better."

My ears burned.

I had once hosted charity galas where men like these competed for my attention.

Now I was carrying their cups.

Dante took one sip and paused.

I had added three spoonfuls of salt.

He looked at the cup, then at me.

"Interesting flavor."

"New recipe."

"You should patent it."

"I'll name it after you. Bitter Bastard Blend."

The youngest guest choked on his coffee.

Dante calmly pushed his cup aside.

"Mr. Bell, please bring me another. Jamie can assist with the dishes."

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I smiled so sweetly that my cheeks hurt.

"Of course, Sir."

By noon, I had broken one glass, insulted a gardener, and discovered that the kitchen staff adored gossip.

A cook named Rosa quietly offered me a sandwich.

"Eat before he invents another job," she whispered.

"Does he always behave like this?"

"With you?" She considered. "I've never seen him smile so much."

That was not comforting.

After lunch, Mr. Bell showed me the household rules.

No entering the basement. No touching weapons. No listening outside closed meeting rooms.

No leaving the property without notifying security.

"Am I a maid or a prisoner?" I demanded.

"You're an employee," Mr. Bell said. "The gates open for you. Security needs notice because of threats against this household."

I tested that claim immediately.

At the front gate, a guard checked my identification and opened the smaller pedestrian entrance.

Cold air touched my face. Freedom was only a step away.

I could leave. I could also lose access to the only people investigating Dad.

I turned around, furious with myself.

Back inside, I found Dante in the library.

"Your security works," I announced.

"I know."

"I could have walked out."

"I know that too."

"You didn't send anyone after me?"

"You came back."

I hated the satisfaction in his voice.

He set down his book. "Did you eat?"

"Don't pretend you care."

"That wasn't an answer."

"Yes. Rosa fed me like a stray cat."

"Good."

He returned to his reading.

For a moment, I didn't know what to do with his ordinary concern.

Then I remembered the headband and recovered my anger.

"Why the dress?"

Dante turned a page.

"Because you would hate it."

"You're a psychopath."

"A busy one. Anything else?"

"Yes. I'm replacing it with trousers."

"Submit a uniform request to Mr. Bell."

I blinked. "That's allowed?"

"Of course."

"Then why didn't he tell me?"

"You didn't ask."

I stared at him. Dante's expression was unreadable.

He enjoyed watching me discover the rules were less absolute than his tone suggested.

That made the game worse, not better.

At four, Mr. Bell handed me a new assignment sheet.

I read the first line and nearly tore it in half.

MASTER BEDROOM: DAILY MARBLE FLOOR CLEANING.

"He has a cleaning staff," I said.

"He specifically requested you."

"Of course he did."

I marched upstairs with a bucket and cloth.

Dante's bedroom was enormous, all dark wood and pale stone.

The windows overlooked the Hudson. The bed looked big enough for six people.

And the floor was spotless.

"This is already clean," I told the empty room.

A voice answered from behind me.

"Then maintaining it should be easy."

Dante stood in the doorway, watching my expression.

I held up the cloth like evidence in court.

"You are enjoying this far too much."

"Tomorrow morning," he said, "I'll inspect every inch."

"With what? A microscope?"

"White gloves."

I pictured strangling him with those gloves.

He stepped aside and gestured toward the marble.

"On your knees, pretty boy."

I learned three things about the household before sunset.

First, Rosa controlled the kitchen more completely than Dante controlled his criminal empire.

Second, Mr. Bell knew every secret but volunteered none of them.

Third, the guards were terrified of upsetting their boss, yet surprisingly kind to me.

One silently retrieved my fallen headband from beneath a table.

Another offered to carry a heavy bucket before remembering I would probably complain.

I complained anyway.

Their kindness made the mansion harder to understand.

It wasn't a prison, but it wasn't a home either.

People moved through its corridors as if the walls had ears.

Twice, I saw men carrying sealed cases toward the basement.

Once, I heard an argument end abruptly when Dante's name was mentioned.

I wanted answers. I also wanted to keep my head attached.

So I memorized the exits, watched the cameras, and learned which doors required a code.

If Dad's disappearance was connected to this place, I would find the connection.

I caught my reflection in a polished mirror near the library.

The uniform still made me want to scream.

But beneath the lace, I was still Jamie Sinclair.

I still knew how to read balance sheets, recognize lies, and fight for people I loved.

Dante could choose my clothes for a shift. He couldn't choose what I believed.

I adjusted the ridiculous headband and marched on.

Even if I had to scrub every floor between here and the truth.

I looked at the floor. Then at him.

One year suddenly sounded longer than a prison sentence.