Chapter One: The Woman In The Wrong Uniform
Dr. Skylar Gallagher had spent eleven years learning how to stop people from dying.
She could open a chest in ninety seconds. She could read shock in the color of a lip. She could smell infection before a lab confirmed it.
But she could not balance six champagne flutes on a silver tray.
The tray tilted in her hands as she crossed the Rossi ballroom, crystal trembling beneath the chandelier light. Her black service dress was too stiff. Her white apron was tied too tightly around her waist.
Someone laughed.
Skylar kept walking.
To them, she was Penny.
A temporary caregiver-maid hired three days before the gala through Carmela Rossi’s private medical trust. Her papers listed her as Penelope Gray, a discreet domestic aide with hospice experience.
The papers were false.
Dr. Elaine Voss, Carmela’s retired neurologist, had made them that way.
Skylar had almost refused.
Then Elaine sent her Carmela’s medication chart.
Three drugs did not belong there.
Two worsened confusion.
One could imitate dementia when used slowly enough.
That was why Skylar entered the Rossi estate wearing a maid uniform instead of a white coat.
She was not there for Dominic.
She told herself that every hour.
Across the ballroom, Carmela Rossi sat beneath a tower of white roses, elegant and fragile in black silk. Her silver hair was perfect. Her diamonds were old. Her eyes were lost.
Skylar saw the tremor in Carmela’s hand.
Then the panic.
Carmela was searching for something the room had stolen.
Skylar set down the tray and crossed to her.
“Mrs. Rossi.”
Carmela blinked.
“Your shawl.”
Skylar draped the black cashmere over her shoulders.
Carmela caught her wrist.
“Skylar?”
The name cut through the music.
Skylar went still.
“No,” she whispered. “Not here.”
Carmela’s eyes sharpened for one dangerous second.
Then fear swallowed them again.
“The roses are wrong.”
“They are only flowers.”
“They hear things.”
Skylar squeezed her hand.
“Then let them listen.”
Carmela almost smiled.
Before Skylar could step back, she felt a stare from the staircase.
Dominic Rossi stood above the ballroom.
Five years had not aged him.
It had weaponized him.
Dark suit. White shirt. No tie. A face carved by restraint and sleeplessness. He looked like a man who had buried every soft thing and built an empire over the grave.
His eyes found Skylar.
Recognition hit him slowly.
Then violently.
He descended the stairs.
The room bent around him.
Men stopped talking. Women lowered their eyes. Guards straightened near the doors.
Skylar picked up the tray.
Too late.
Dominic stopped in front of her.
“You work here?”
“Yes, Mr. Rossi.”
His jaw tightened.
“That is not your name.”
“It is tonight.”
The space between them remembered too much.
His blood on her kitchen floor.
His mouth at her wrist.
His silence after her life burned.
“Leave this house,” he said.
Skylar smiled without warmth.
“You tried that before.”
His eyes flickered.
Good.
Let it hurt.
A woman in white satin appeared beside him, sliding a manicured hand around his arm.
Bianca Moretti.
The future bride.
The peace treaty.
The knife wearing perfume.
Her diamond ring caught the light.
Skylar noticed the setting first.
Jagged platinum.
Too sharp for beauty.
Bianca looked Skylar up and down.
“Why is the help staring?”
Skylar lowered her eyes.
Because the ring smelled wrong.
Bitter.
Synthetic.
Familiar.
Dominic did not move.
Bianca’s smile thinned.
“Go clean something.”
Skylar turned away.
As she passed the side corridor, she saw Matteo, Dominic’s underboss, standing near Carmela’s private medicine cabinet built into the wall.
He closed it too quickly.
Their eyes met.
He knew her.
Not Penny.
Skylar felt the first real chill of the night.
Then Carmela’s chair scraped behind her.
The old woman stood suddenly, pale beneath the chandelier.
“The girl in white,” Carmela whispered.
Skylar moved toward her.
“What about her?”
Carmela gripped her sleeve.
“She brought the old poison back.”
Across the room, Bianca lifted her hand.
The diamond ring flashed.
And Skylar understood the gala had never been about marriage.
It was a murder dressed as peace.
