Nobody entered my private bedroom without permission.

The bedroom went deathly still, save for the rain lashing against the glass panes.

"Julian died on Route 9," I said, my voice dropping an octave, cold and controlled. "The state police pulled him from the car. We buried him in Holy Cross Cemetery."

"You buried a transient who died in a ditch two miles away," Khloe countered, her voice steady despite the pale cast of her skin. "Julian paid two hundred thousand dollars to grease the county coroner’s palms and switch the dental records. He walked away with a clean slate, a new identity, and the company money."

"And you expect me to believe you knew this?" I let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "You were twenty-one years old when Julian disappeared. You weren't even in this city."

"I wasn't in this city because I was raising his child," she said.

The words hit me square in the chest.

"You?" I looked at her—really looked at her. Her youthful face, the slight frame, the tired lines around her mouth. "You're Julian's mistress?"

Khloe’s expression twisted with immediate disgust. "God, no. I wouldn't touch your brother with a ten-foot pole. His wife was my older sister, Clara."

A cold blade of memory pierced through my mind. Clara Evans. Julian had dated an art student named Clara for six months before his supposed death. We had all assumed she was just another girl in his revolving door of socialites. Then she had disappeared from the city right around the time Julian supposedly died.

"Clara died giving birth to Leo four years ago," Khloe said, her voice dropping into a register of raw grief. "In a clinic in Vermont. She bled out before the ambulance could get her to a real hospital. Julian was already gone—hiding out in Montreal, living like a king on your family's stolen money. He sent an envelope of cash once every six months to keep me quiet, with instructions to keep Leo hidden until he was ready to claim him."

"If Julian is alive and sending you money," I said, watching her fingers twist into the blanket, "why the hell have you been working eighty hours a week answering my phones?"

Khloe looked up, a bitter smile touching her lips. "Because three weeks ago, the money stopped. And a man showed up at my apartment building while Leo was at preschool. A man with a scar running from his ear to his lip."

My stomach plummeted.

Victor Vance. The head of the North Port syndicate. A man I had been fighting for control of the freight terminals for three long years.

"Julian didn't just steal from you, Vincent," Khloe said, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "He borrowed five million dollars from Vance's offshore lenders to finance his disappearance. He promised Vance he would hand over Costa Logistics’ original harbor deeds—the ones only your father knew the location of. When Julian couldn't find them, Vance realized Julian had a son. A leverage point."

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet touched the hardwood floor. She stood up, fragile in her wrinkled work clothes, yet taller than I had ever seen her.

"I came to work for you two years ago because Costa Logistics was the only place Vance wouldn't dare send his men," she said, stepping toward me. "Your name was Leo's shield. As long as I worked right under your nose, Vance assumed you were watching me. He assumed Leo was protected by your men."

"You used me," I murmured.

"I protected my nephew!" she snapped back, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "My sister made me swear on her deathbed that Julian would never turn Leo into a pawn. But yesterday, Julian contacted me. Not from Canada. From right here in the city."

I grabbed her wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to anchor her. "Where is he?"

"He said he was coming for Leo tonight," she breathed, her pulse fluttering wild under my fingertips. "He said Vance gave him twenty-four hours to deliver the boy as collateral, or Vance’s crew would execute him. Julian doesn't care about Leo. He never did. He's going to trade his own son to save his neck."

"Where is the boy right now, Khloe?"

"With Mrs. Gable, my neighbor on 4th Street," she said, her voice breaking. "I was supposed to take him and run tonight. I packed his bag yesterday. But Paulie called me at nine last night, demanding I bring the harbor permits to your estate immediately, or I'd be fired. If I lost this job, I had no money to run. I drove through the storm, my car broke down two miles out, I walked through the rain... and by the time I walked into this room, my head was spinning. I sat down, and my body just gave out."

She looked down at the pocket watch still resting in my hand.

"The boy has Julian's eyes, Vincent," she whispered. "He's four years old. He loves peanut butter sandwiches and he sleeps with a toy wooden boat. If Vance gets him..."

Before she could finish, the phone on my bedside table didn't ring—instead, my encrypted work mobile in my jacket pocket began to vibrate with violent intensity.

I pulled it out.

It was a text from Paulie.

Boss. Fire at the 4th Street tenements. Whole block is burning. FDNY is on scene.

Khloe saw the look on my face. She lunged forward, grabbing my lapels. "What is it? What happened?"