At 9:17 P.M., a wealthy customer punched me so hard I lost consciousness on the checkered floor of a New York diner.

The rain turned into a downpour by noon.

I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the fresh clothes Vincent’s people had provided—a charcoal wool sweater, dark jeans that fit my frame perfectly, and soft leather boots. The labels were removed. Everything was understated, expensive, and bought without my consent.

My reflection in the small bathroom mirror was terrifying: the left side of my face was swollen into shades of plum, indigo, and sickly yellow. The stitch line near my cheekbone was raw.

"Amelia?"

The door opened, and a woman entered. She wasn't one of Vincent’s muscle-bound enforcers. She was around forty, with sharp hazel eyes, sharp cheekbones, and hair pulled back into an immaculate bun. She carried a sleek leather briefcase and wore a navy blue power suit that radiated ruthless competence.

"I'm Elena Vance," she said, extending a manicured hand. "Mr. Castellano’s primary legal counsel. May I sit?"

"Do I have a choice?" I asked, remaining standing.

Elena smiled faintly, a dry, approving smirk. "You always have a choice, Ms. Hayes. That’s the entire point of this arrangement. May I?"

She gestured toward the vinyl visitor's chair. I nodded slowly.

Elena clicked open her briefcase and set a thick dossier on the bedside table. "Twenty minutes ago, Judge Arthur Lawson held an informal press gathering on the steps of the Kings County Courthouse. He alleged that his son, Derek, was the victim of a targeted gang assault inside an unsanctioned mob front. He claimed you were an escort who attempted to solicit Derek, and when he refused, your 'associates' brutally maimed him."

The breath left my lungs in an icy rush. "An escort? He... he grabbed my wrist! He tried to force me onto his lap! I have three witnesses from the night shift—"

"The dishwasher, Maria, has an undocumented brother," Elena interrupted coolly. "Two detectives from the 78th Precinct visited her apartment two hours ago. She has suddenly forgotten everything she saw. The short-order cook, Toby, was offered five thousand dollars cash by Lawson's investigator to take an extended vacation to Puerto Rico. He boarded a flight an hour ago."

I gripped the back of the chair, my knuckles turning white. "They're erasing it. Just like that."

"That is how wealth operates in this city when it goes unchecked," Elena said. "Arthur Lawson has spent thirty years curating an untouchable pedigree. He is up for a nomination to the State Supreme Court next spring. A son with a felony conviction for aggravated assault against a working-class woman would torpedo his legacy. He will destroy your life, Ms. Hayes. He will have you arrested for filing a false police report by tomorrow evening if we do not act."

"And what does Vincent want me to do?" I spat, the anger finally burning through my numbness. "Sit in a pretty brownstone and let his mobsters shoot Derek Lawson? Become the centerpiece in a mafia war?"

"Mr. Castellano doesn't fight wars with back-alley shootings unless he has exhausted his intellect," a voice sounded from the doorway.

Vincent stood there, flanked by Marco, his right-hand lieutenant—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running through his left eyebrow and cold, watchful eyes.

Vincent walked into the room, his eyes scanning my face, noting the tension in my posture.

"Amelia," Vincent said, his voice even. "I do not want you to hide. I want you to testify."

I blinked, caught off guard. "Testify? You're a mob boss. You don't use courtrooms."

"I use whatever weapon is most lethal to my enemies," Vincent said. "A bullet turns Arthur Lawson into a martyr. It gives the federal government an excuse to raid every dock I own. But a public trial—one where his son’s depravity is exposed, where his bribes to the police are dragged into the sunlight, and where his judicial corruption is laid bare—will strip him of his title, his fortune, and his freedom. That is true death for a man like Arthur Lawson."

He took a step closer, his eyes boring into mine.

"I cannot put Derek Lawson in prison without your voice. The law requires a victim willing to stand before twelve strangers and point the finger. But if you stand, they will dig into every closet of your past. They will find your ex-husband. They will find your unpaid debts. They will drag your name through the mud until you feel like you are drowning."

My chest heaved. The phantom pain in my old cracked rib throbbed—a ghost of the night Greg had kicked me down the kitchen hallway while the neighbors turned up their televisions.

"Why should I trust you?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "You're just another powerful man who wants to use me as a pawn against his rival."

Vincent stopped right in front of me. Slowly, deliberately, he reached inside his jacket, pulled out a small, heavy silver key, and laid it in my palm. He closed my fingers around it.

"That key opens the master bedroom of the brownstone in Cobble Hill," Vincent said softly. "The locks on the doors are biometric. Only your fingerprint and that key can open them. There are no cameras inside. Marco and three guards will remain on the perimeter of the street, but no man—not even me—will cross that threshold without your written permission."

He looked at my bruised face, his expression completely devoid of deception.

"I don't want a pawn, Amelia. I want to give you the one thing you were denied three years ago: the chance to see a monster pay for what he did, while you stand above him, unbroken."

I looked down at the heavy key in my hand. It was cold at first, but slowly, it began to absorb the heat of my skin.