THE MAFIA BOSS BURIED HIS WIFE TWO MONTHS AGO—THEN HIS MAID’S THREE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WHISPERED, “I SAW HER HIDING BEHIND THE OLD TRAIN STATION… AND BRUNO WAS WITH HER”

The executive suite at DeLuca Maritime on the thirty-fourth floor of the Manhattan high-rise smelled of mahogany polish, expensive espresso, and rain against floor-to-ceiling glass.

It was 2:15 in the morning.

Vincent Moreau stood by the panoramic window, a cut-crystal tumbler of scotch in his left hand, his tailored charcoal suit unbuttoned. He looked tired—convincingly so. There were dark circles beneath his hazel eyes, the posture of a loyal corporate brother who had dragged himself out of bed at two in the morning because Lorenzo had called.

"You're being paranoid, Enzo," Vincent said smoothly, using the childhood nickname only he was allowed to use. He turned, holding the scotch glass against the light. "North Pier’s automated routing had a server glitch yesterday. That’s why the logistics codes pinged. I had IT look at it before I left the office."

Lorenzo sat behind his desk. He hadn't poured himself a drink. His hands were clasped in front of him, perfectly still.

"A server glitch," Lorenzo echoed.

"It happens. We move four billion dollars of dry freight through Newark and Brooklyn every quarter. The legacy software is twenty years old." Vincent walked over, resting a heavy, reassuring hand on Lorenzo’s desk—the same hand that had held Lorenzo’s shoulder in the rain at the cemetery while the sod was shoveled onto Claire Donnelly’s coffin. "You look terrible, brother. You haven't slept since... since the funeral. You’re letting ghosts into the ledger."

"A man tried to kill me three hours ago, Vincent."

Vincent froze. His eyes flared with a sudden, microscopic flicker of terror before his face reorganized itself into an expression of shocked outrage.

"What? Where? Who?"

"In the old freight yard near 138th Street." Lorenzo kept his eyes locked onto Vincent's pupils. "A mercenary named Tadek. Caught a round in the shoulder. Ortiz has him at Saint Luke’s under armed guard."

Vincent set his glass down on the mahogany with a sharp *clink*. "Jesus, Enzo. Are you hurt? Why the hell were you at the rail yard in the middle of the night?"

"Sophia’s little girl told me she saw Bruno."

The silence in the room became so heavy that the low hum of the air filtration system sounded like a jet engine.

Vincent blinked once. Twice. "Bruno? Lorenzo... Bruno burned in the vehicle with Bella. The state police found the collar buckle."

"They found a melted belt buckle that belonged to a leather bag," Lorenzo corrected, his voice dropping an octave into a low, terrifying purr. "The little girl saw his collar. The one with the bent iron link from the garden gate. And tonight, I found Cane Corso hair in a squatter’s nest behind a boxcar. And blood."

Vincent took a slow, measured breath. He walked behind his chair, gripping the leather backrest. "Lorenzo... listen to me very carefully. Grief does things to the brain. I watched my father lose his mind after my mother died. He thought he saw her at the dry cleaners. He chased a woman three blocks through Little Italy."

"Did your father find his wife's handwriting carved into the brick?" Lorenzo asked.

Vincent stopped breathing.

"What handwriting?"

"She left me a message, Vincent. Three numbers and a letter." Lorenzo stood up slowly. At six-foot-two, with broad shoulders and an athlete’s balance, he dwarfed Vincent in the dim office light. "You remember July 14th, don't you? You were my best man. You signed the registry as our witness."

Vincent’s jaw tightened. "Of course I remember."

"Then you know where that leads."

"Lorenzo—"

"I had Rachel Ortiz pull the records for Dr. Calvin Rusk an hour ago," Lorenzo said softly, rounding the desk. His footsteps made no sound on the hand-knotted wool rug. "Our beloved family dentist. The man who verified the dental charts from the crash. Did you know he bought a six-bedroom waterfront house in Boca Raton three weeks ago? Paid cash. Wired from a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands called *N-P Holdings*."

Vincent didn't move. His face had gone completely colorless, the genial warmth vanishing like steam off hot iron.

"North Pier Holdings," Lorenzo whispered, stopping three inches from Vincent’s face. "Your brother-in-law's entity. The one Isabella was auditing before she burned."

Vincent’s hand dropped toward his coat pocket.

Before his fingers could touch the silk lining, Lorenzo’s left hand struck like a coiled viper, grabbing Vincent’s wrist and driving it violently against the heavy oak desk. The bone groaned under the torque.

Lorenzo reached inside Vincent’s jacket and pulled out a snub-nosed .38 revolver, sliding it across the desk into the darkness.

"Twenty-two years," Lorenzo whispered, his thumb pressing into the nerve cluster behind Vincent’s ear until the other man whimpered, his knees buckling. "I shared my bread with you. When your father died in debt to the Gambinos, I paid them three million out of my own pocket so you could walk through this city with your teeth in your mouth."

"You... don't... understand..." Vincent choked out, his eyes bulging with agony. "It was never... supposed to be like this..."

"Where is she?"

"She... she was supposed to go to Europe!" Vincent wept, tears of panic finally spilling down his cheeks. "The Donnelly woman was an accident! She came to the warehouse early! She saw the paperwork! Anthony panicked... he hit her... she wasn't breathing, Enzo! We couldn't let Bella talk! She had the invoices! She was going to tear the whole company down!"

"Where is my wife?" Lorenzo roared, his composure shattering, his fist lifting Vincent by the lapels until the COO’s feet dangled off the carpet.

"I don't know!" Vincent screamed. "I swear to God on my mother’s soul! She escaped the farmhouse near Kingston three weeks ago! Anthony lost her in the Catskills! We’ve been hunting the city for twenty days trying to find her before you did! If Anthony found her... he was going to kill her, Lorenzo! Not me! Anthony!"

The heavy oak office doors flew open. Mason Reed stepped in, his weapon drawn, flanked by two armed men.

"Lorenzo," Mason said urgently. "Ortiz just called. Saint Luke’s Hospital."

Lorenzo didn't let go of Vincent. He looked over his shoulder. "What about it?"

"A woman just walked into the pediatric ward through the emergency dock," Mason said, his voice trembling with an emotion Lorenzo had never heard from the hardened federal agent. "She had a severe laceration on her forearm, third-degree malnutrition, and a Cane Corso on a frayed rope. The staff tried to stop her, but the dog pinned two security guards to the floor."

Lorenzo dropped Vincent like a sack of wet salt.

"Is it her?"

"She wouldn't give her name to the triage nurse," Mason whispered. "She just handed them a bloody piece of paper and told them to call the DeLuca townhouse."

"What did the paper say?"