“Because I’ve seen what you can do, and I know you. You’re truly talented, Morgan. There’s no one else like you.”

Drakon’s car was parked at a helipad outside Pompeii, waiting for them, and the driver whisked them to the ancient city to meet a private guide who was going to take them on a behind-the-scenes tour of the ruined city.

Morgan was glad she’d worn flat leather sandals since they walked from one end of the city to another, and she listened closely to everything the guide said, captivated by his stories of first century Pompeii, a thriving city of approximately ten thousand people. She was fascinated by the buried city and its restaurants and hotels and brothels, as well as the artwork revealed … frescoes and mosaics and sculptures.

“Pompeii is the most incredible place,” she said as they made their way through the extraordinary villa, House of the Faun, and back into the sunlight. “But Pompeii also breaks my heart. It was such a beautiful city, and so full of life and people and passion—and then it was all wiped out. Gone in a matter of hours.”

“Are you sorry I brought you today?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s amazing. All of it. The houses, the streets, the restaurants, the statues and pots and artifacts. But it hurts, too. Life is so fragile, and unpredictable. There are no guarantees. Not for anyone.”

“Your life changed overnight, didn’t it?”

She looked at him, suddenly wary. “You mean, with the revelation of Michael’s Ponzi scheme?”

Drakon nodded and Morgan bit down into her lip. “It did,” she agreed softly. “I still find it hard to believe what’s happened at home. Who would have thought a year ago … even three months ago … that my father would become one of the most hated men in America? That we’d lose everything … that so many others would lose everything, too, through his, and Michael’s, actions?”

They’d come to a stop next to the cordoned-off fountain with its bronze statue of a dancing faun. This beautiful solitary faun was all that was left of this once glorious, elegant garden, and she held her breath a moment, pressing a fist to her chest, as if somehow she could control the pain, ease the tenderness.

“My father was horrified when he discovered that all his clients, all his investors, had lost their money. He found out on his way to a Valentine’s Day soiree—another one of those black-tie balls my mother loves—when he got the text from Michael to say that it was over. That agents from the federal government had just left his house and there would be arrests made, and that Dad should flee, rather than be indicted.” Her voice faded and she struggled to continue. “At first Dad didn’t believe it. None of us could believe it. And then when the shock wore off, there was anger, and shame.”

Morgan worked her lip between her teeth, tasting blood but thinking nothing of it, because everything hurt now, all the time. Pain was constant. Pain and that endless, overwhelming shame. “Dad wanted to kill himself. My brother talked him out of it, telling Dad that if he was innocent, then he owed it to his family, his friends and his clients to prove his innocence, and try to recoup as much of the lost investments as he could. But then Dad vanished, and Mom said Dad would have been better off killing himself. That by disappearing, Dad had left us in a worse situation. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe Dad should have died—”