HE LAUGHED WHEN HIS ENFORCER GRABBED MY WRIST—UNTIL I SLAMMED THEM BOTH TO THE DINER FLOOR.

Nobody called me Lena anymore.

Not for eighteen years.

Not since the night my father shoved me into the back of a black government SUV and told me I had to forget everything.

Not since he kissed my forehead, told me he loved me, and promised he would find me when it was safe.

Not since I watched through the rear window as our house disappeared behind flashing red lights.

The next morning, they told me my father was dead.

Detective Samuel Voss had been killed in a warehouse fire on the South Side.

Officially, it had been an accident.

Unofficially, everyone knew it was an execution.

He had been working undercover inside the Vale Street Syndicate, a criminal organization that controlled half the city’s illegal gambling, stolen goods, extortion, and construction rackets.

He had gathered evidence for three years.

He had trusted the wrong person with one detail.

And then people began dying.

My father died.

My mother disappeared.

And I became Jessica Lane.

A name created by people in dark suits who told an eight-year-old girl that staying alive meant becoming someone else.

Matthew Valentine stood in front of me now, his face unreadable.

“Lena Voss,” he repeated.

I forced myself to breathe.

“You’ve got the wrong person.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Carla came out from behind the counter.

“Jess, what is he talking about?”

I turned toward her.

“Go to the back office.”

“But—”

“Now.”

My voice must have sounded different, because she didn’t argue.

She ran.

Matthew’s bodyguards had finally gotten to their feet. Scar Face rubbed his shoulder and glared at me like he wanted revenge. The other one had a cut above his eyebrow from hitting the table.

Matthew held up one hand.

“Wait outside,” he told them.

Scar Face frowned. “Boss—”

“Outside.”

They obeyed.

Not willingly.

But immediately.

Once the door closed behind them, Matthew sat down in the nearest booth as though he had not just turned my life upside down.

“Sit,” he said.

I didn’t move.

“I’m not taking orders from you.”

“That spirit,” he said. “Your father had it too.”

My stomach twisted.

“Don’t talk about him.”

Matthew’s gaze settled on me.

“Your father was a brave man.”

“You knew him?”

“I knew of him.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He smiled faintly.

“You should be careful, Lena. Curiosity gets people hurt.”

“I’m already hurt.”

His expression darkened for a second.

Then he reached inside his coat.

I tensed.

But instead of a weapon, he placed a photograph on the table.

It was old.

The edges were bent, the colors faded.

A little girl with dark braids stood between a tall man in a police jacket and a woman with long brown hair.

My mother.

My father.

Me.

My knees nearly gave out.

“Where did you get that?”

Matthew watched my reaction carefully.

“From a file that was supposed to be destroyed.”

“What do you want?”

“Answers.”

“You came here with two men and grabbed my wrist for answers?”

“Their manners are not my responsibility.”

I almost laughed.

“They work for you.”

“Yes,” he said. “And they are both regretting tonight.”

His voice was calm, but his eyes flicked briefly toward the door.

That was enough.

He knew I could hurt them again.

I picked up the picture.

My mother’s face looked younger than I remembered. Happier. She had been a journalist before everything happened. She had been writing an article about police corruption and organized crime.

Then she vanished two weeks after my father died.

The authorities told me she was probably dead.

I had spent eighteen years trying not to think about it.

“Why are you looking for me?” I asked.

Matthew leaned forward.

“Because your father left something behind.”

I stared at him.

“He left evidence.”

“He left a ledger,” Matthew said. “A physical ledger. Names, payments, police officers, judges, city officials. Every person on Vale Street’s payroll.”

My throat tightened.

“My father gave everything to the FBI.”

“He gave them most of it.”

Matthew’s eyes were cold now.

“But not all.”

The diner lights flickered.

Outside, thunder rolled over Chicago.

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Your father trusted no one near the end. Not the police. Not federal agents. Not his own task force.” Matthew paused. “He hid the last piece where only his daughter could find it.”

I shook my head.

“I was eight.”

“You were eight,” he said. “But you were with him the day before he died.”

A memory surfaced.

My father in the garage.

His hands shaking as he lifted the floorboard beneath his old workbench.

Telling me to remember the song.

A song he used to sing while making pancakes.

Blue moon over the water, little star don’t cry…

I had not thought about it in years.

Matthew saw something shift in my expression.

“You remember,” he said.

I stepped backward.

“No.”

“You do.”

“No.”

Matthew stood.

“I am not your enemy, Lena.”

“You’re Matthew Valentine.”

“And what exactly do you think that means?”

“It means people are afraid of you.”

“People should be afraid of the men who killed your father.”

I looked at him.

He moved closer, lowering his voice.

“Your father didn’t die because he was weak. He died because he found out the Vale Street Syndicate had people everywhere. He planned to expose them. The ledger can destroy what remains of that organization.”

“Why do you care?”

Matthew’s face became unreadable again.

“Because the man who ordered your father’s death also ordered my brother’s.”

The words hung in the air.

For the first time, I saw something beneath Matthew Valentine’s control.

Grief.

Old grief.

The kind that becomes a weapon if you let it.

“I don’t trust you,” I said.

“You shouldn’t.”

That answer surprised me.

“But you should know this,” he continued. “Someone else has been looking for you. Someone who won’t walk into a diner and ask questions.”