"I was a broke waitress with an eviction notice in my purse when a dying six-year-old handed me her phone in a deserted Detroit garage. Minutes later, the city’s most feared man arrived with three black SUVs—and instead of asking who had hurt his daughter, Harlan Voss looked straight at me and demanded to know who had saved her.

The interior of the black Cadillac Escalade smelled of fresh leather and antiseptic.

Belle lay on an integrated medical gurney in the rear section, flanked by two doctors who were monitoring a digital heart rate screen. The steady beep... beep... beep of her pulse was the only sound in the vehicle as we tore through the dark, snowy streets of Detroit at eighty miles per hour, running every red light.

I sat in the middle leather bucket seat, my hands tucked into the oversized pockets of Harlan’s coat.

Harlan sat across from me, a glass of amber scotch resting in his hand, staring out the tinted window at the passing city lights.

“How did she get into that garage?” I asked quietly, breaking the heavy silence.

Harlan’s jaw tightened. The glass in his hand creaked under the sudden pressure of his grip.

“She was taking private piano lessons at the Meridian Conservatory,” Harlan said, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. “She was guarded by four of my best men. At 11:30, the power grid on the block was cut. A flashbang went off in the lobby. My men were neutralized.”

My stomach dropped. “Someone kidnapped her?”

“They tried,” Harlan turned his icy gray eyes back to me. “Belle is smart. Her mother taught her to run if she ever heard loud pops. She slipped through the fire exit into the parking structure and hid behind that pillar. The men who took her are currently lying in a ditch near the river.”

I shuddered. I didn't need to ask what he meant by neutralized or lying in a ditch.

“Her heart,” I murmured, looking toward the gurney. “You said she has a heart condition?”

“Hypoplastic left heart syndrome,” Harlan said, his expression softening for a fraction of a second as he looked at his daughter. “Three surgeries before her fourth birthday. A cold breeze can trigger severe arrhythmia. If you hadn't found her when you did, her core temperature would have dropped below eighty degrees in another twenty minutes.”

He leaned forward, setting his scotch glass down in the holder.

“Which brings me back to you, Rue Callaway,” he said, pulling a thin silver tablet from his seat pocket. He tapped the screen once.

My eyes widened as I saw my own face staring back at me from the digital display—my mugshot-style driver’s license, my employment records at the Golden Egg Diner, my bank statements, and a scanned copy of the bright pink eviction notice currently sitting in my handbag.

“Hey!” I snapped, my cheeks flushing with anger and embarrassment. “That’s private!”

“Nothing in Detroit is private from me,” Harlan said smoothly. “Nineteen years old. Born in Flint. Mother passed away three years ago. Working fifty hours a week at a greasy diner for eight dollars an hour plus tips. You owe three thousand dollars in back rent to a slumlord named Marcus Kane, and you have fifteen dollars and forty cents in your checking account.”

I gripped the leather armrests, my embarrassment turning into raw, defensive pride. “I work for my money. I don't steal, and I don't ask for hand-outs.”

“I know,” Harlan said. “That’s why you’re still sitting here instead of being thrown out on the street.”

The SUV pulled up to the rear private entrance of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital. The heavy steel gates opened automatically, and a team of ten doctors in white coats rushed out to meet the vehicle.

The rear doors flew open. The medical team expertly lifted Belle’s gurney, wheeling her through the automatic glass doors into a private, high-security wing guarded by six armed men in suits.

Harlan stood up, stepping out of the car. He paused on the running board, looking back over his shoulder at me.

“Come inside,” he commanded.

“I need to go home, Mr. Voss,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “I have an opening shift at six AM.”

Harlan pulled a thick, black leather wallet from his suit pocket. He pulled out a gold metal card with an embossed crest and handed it to his chief of security.

“Call the Golden Egg Diner,” Harlan ordered the guard. “Buy the building. Fire her manager. And bring her bag from her apartment.”