The Las Vegas Mafia Boss Kicked His Housekeeper in Front of His Entire Family—Unaware She Was a Martial Arts Master. But After She Put Him on the Floor...

Grant stepped over the debris on the floor, setting his weapon on the table, looking down at us with a quiet, profound respect in his dark eyes.

“Is she hurt?” Grant asked me quietly.

“She’s bruised, but she’s okay,” I answered, helping Paige stand up from the floor.

Paige looked at Grant, then at the four heavily armed tactical operatives standing guard by her shattered door. “Celeste... who is he?”

“My name is Grant Voss,” Grant said gently, stepping forward and offering a clean handkerchief to my sister. “I am deeply sorry for what my family brought to your home tonight, Miss Rowan. I promise you, you are completely safe now.”

Paige took the handkerchief, wiping her nose, looking back and forth between us. “Voss...? Like... the casino family in Nevada?”

“Yes,” I said. “Damon Voss was the man who killed Dad, Paige. He sent these men here tonight to find something Dad gave you.”

Paige went completely still, her mouth opening slightly. “The... the wooden box?”

“Where is it, Paige?” I asked desperately, taking both of her hands in mine. “Where is the mahogany box Dad made for your ninth birthday?”

Paige turned her head slowly, looking toward the corner of the living room where an old, rusted iron radiator sat beneath the window sill.

“After Mom died,” Paige whispered, “I was afraid someone would break into my apartment and steal it. I unscrewed the metal floor grate behind the radiator... it’s tucked inside the subflooring.”

Miller immediately walked over to the radiator, pulling a tactical crowbar from his belt. With two heavy heaves, he popped the rusted metal grate off the floorboards, revealing a dark, dusty cavity in the building’s joists.

He reached his gloved hand deep inside, pulling out a rectangle object wrapped tightly in yellowed plastic oilcloth.

He walked over and set it gently on the clear kitchen counter.

I reached out with trembling fingers and unwrapped the oilcloth.

Inside sat the pristine, mahogany jewelry box my father had built twenty-two years ago. The brass lock was slightly tarnished, but the delicate rose carvings on the lid were as beautiful and sharp as the day he had handed it to my sister.

Paige reached into her shirt, pulling out a thin silver necklace she had worn every single day of her life. Dangling from the chain was a small, ornate brass key.

She unclasped the necklace, holding the key out to me.

“You open it, Celeste,” Paige whispered. “You’re the one who kept us alive.”

I took the small brass key. My hand shook so violently I could barely align it with the keyhole.

I inserted the key.

I turned it once to the right.

A soft, metallic click echoed through the silent apartment.

I slowly lifted the mahogany lid.

Inside the box, resting on faded red velvet, was not a gold necklace or a childhood trinket.

It was a sleek, silver military-grade solid-state drive, accompanied by a small black leather notebook filled with my father’s precise, neat handwriting.