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someone in Sicily knew her father. Her grandfather for that matter. While both men walked on opposite sides of the criminal life, they’d been equally powerful. Grandpoppa hadn’t succeeded in his numerous jewel thefts without contacts. Her father, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide the fact his mafia ties originated in Sicily.
    Problem was, Isabelle had been so adamant to sever all those connections and reclaim legitimacy for her small family, she didn’t know a damn one to try. If she walked into the alleys and started mentioning the Speranza name, no telling what kind of trouble she might find. She could as easily run into an enemy who didn’t understand she wanted nothing to do with their ways of life, as she could run into someone willing to help on a conditional basis.
    Then again, conditional didn’t apply to the mafia. Even if she could find the right people to contact in Sicily, she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to spend the rest of her life indebted to the mob. That was how it had all started for her father. Only, he’d possessed the street smarts to rise to the top and overthrow the murdering fiend he served. More reason to suspect he had more enemies than friends over here.
    Grandpoppa on the other hand…
    She tapped a stubby nail on the glass and cocked her head, trying to glimpse the city down below. Damn it, she couldn’t even remember which town he’d grown up in. He’d died when she was seven.
    Isabelle slowly curled her fingers into her palm and pressed her forehead to the glass. There had to be something she could do, some sort of leverage she could use against Paul to insure nothing happened to September.
    But what in the world could a half-Italian, second-generation American fine jeweler, who didn’t know the first thing about her Sicilian roots, do to protect her child with an ocean between them? She couldn’t very well pack up her things and go back to Chicago. Not until she had the diamonds in her possession.
    Talking sense into Paul wouldn’t work either; she’d already tried. He refused to answer both his cell phone and his business phone. Call the cops? Probably not the wisest thing, and convincing the St. Louis police—where Paul lived—that their most affluent resident had kidnapped a child would be near impossible. Even if she could talk them into believing her, Paul’s three-story mansion could easily hide a child.
    Not to mention, she didn’t have any proof September was even there. He’d phoned from his cell. He could be in any one of his vacation homes, or hell, on his yacht in the Ozarks. By the time she located his hiding place, she would already have the diamonds, and the need would be over.
    Isabelle lifted her gaze to the bright blue sky. “God, please,” she whispered. Tears rose up to choke off the rest of her prayer.
    Turning away, she brushed a stray drop off her cheek and sniffed to stop the remainder from falling. Crying solved nothing. Worse, if she let that dam break, she wasn’t certain she could patch it back together enough to survive the next three days. She folded her arms around her torso and resumed her back and forth path across the length of the room.
    Maybe she should meet with Caradoc. Maybe he had contacts he could call if he knew, if he cared , that he had a daughter.
    She dismissed the thought as quickly as it surfaced. She couldn’t tell Caradoc. The very real possibility loomed that if he did want to step into the role of father, September’s kidnapping gave him ample room to claim child endangerment and take her away. It would take a stretch to get a judge to buy it, but that kind of hell wasn’t something Isabelle intended to put September through.
    Worse though, if Caradoc turned away from their daughter, Isabelle couldn’t deal with that kind of heartbreak until Septemb er was once again at home, safe and secure. And Paul Reid was where he couldn’t ever threaten her again. Behind bars, in the dirt, at the bottom of the