AN INJURED SINGLE MOTHER CRAWLED INTO A LUXURY GALA BEGGING TO BE BELIEVED—THEN THE MAFIA BOSS FOUND HIS FATHER’S NAME IN THE FILE SHE STOLE

The basement beneath the Aldwych Hotel did not exist on the building’s blueprint maps filed with the city housing department.

It was an old wine cellar built in 1912, constructed with three-foot-thick stone walls and concrete ceilings designed to muffle the sound of coal fires from the old furnace rooms.

Desmond Cade sat bound to an iron chair in the middle of the cold, damp room.

His rimless glasses were gone, sitting smashed on the stone floor near his polished leather shoes. His silk tie was undone, his collar torn open, and a bloody bruise had already formed across his left cheekbone.

Standing in front of him, illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from a black cord, was Soren Vance.

Leo stood near the iron door, his heavy arms crossed over his chest, his face completely unreadable.

"Soren... please," Desmond choked out, spitting a mouthful of dark blood onto the concrete. "You have to listen to me! That paper... that paper is a forgery! That cleaning girl... she’s working for the federal investigators! She planted that document in my office to turn us against each other!"

Soren did not answer.

He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket, flipped it open, and lit a thin black clove cigarette with a zippo lighter. The sharp, sweet smell of clove smoke filled the damp cellar air.

He took a slow, deep drag, exhaling a long plume of blue smoke toward the concrete ceiling.

"My father gave you that job, Desmond," Soren said softly.

"I was loyal to him!" Desmond cried out, his voice cracking with panic. "I worked eighteen hours a day for Arthur! I built the hotel’s administrative system from nothing!"

"You built a system that tracked human beings like crates of liquor," Soren corrected flatly. "You took undocumented women who had no families in this country, logged their hours, and when they learned too much about your off-shore accounts, you handed them over to private security firms to be 'liquidated.'"

Soren stepped closer, leaning down until his face was six inches from Desmond’s.

"Dahlia Thorne," Soren murmured. "Where is she?"

Desmond swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically toward the iron door. "She’s... she’s at the facility in Hammond. She isn't dead, Soren! I swear to God she isn't dead! They use them for labor at the river docks! They're alive!"

Soren closed his eyes for two seconds, letting out a long, quiet breath.

"And my father?" Soren asked. "Was he sent to Hammond, too?"

Desmond went completely silent. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin a pale, sickly yellow under the harsh light of the single bulb.

"He found out," Desmond whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the distant water pipes. "Arthur found the offshore ledgers. He was going to turn everything over to the state prosecutor to clear his name... he was going to shut down the harbor operations... I had no choice, Soren! If he went to the prosecutor, we were all going to prison!"

Soren pulled the silver cufflink from his pocket.

He held it between two fingers, letting the dim yellow light catch the engraved double eagle crest.

"He trusted you enough to give you his personal mark," Soren said softly. "He gave you a home. He paid for your mother’s cancer treatments in '18."

"Soren—"

Soren dropped the cigarette onto the stone floor, crushing it out beneath the heel of his shoe.

He turned his back on Desmond, walking toward the iron door.

"Leo," Soren said without looking back.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Take three cars to the Hammond facility. Bring Dahlia Thorne and every other woman listed on pages four through seven back to the hotel. Have Dr. Aris examine them in the south wing."

"And Desmond?" Leo asked.