Z

Declan came back nine minutes later.

I counted every second.

When the red door opened, I was holding Sophie’s file against my chest like it could keep my heart from escaping.

Declan entered first.

Blood marked his white shirt near the shoulder.

I stood so quickly the room shifted.

“You’re hurt.”

“Not mine.”

I hated how relieved that made me.

Ronan followed him.

“Three men. Two ran. One won’t be answering questions tonight.”

I didn’t ask what that meant.

Declan looked toward the files.

“We’re taking everything.”

“What about police?”

Ronan glanced at him.

Declan answered me.

“Copies go to a detective I trust.”

“You trust a detective?”

“One.”

“That sounds optimistic.”

“Don’t tell him.”

Despite everything, I smiled.

It vanished when I looked at Sophie’s folder again.

There was something inside I had not noticed before.

An envelope.

My name was written across the front.

LENA.

Sophie’s handwriting.

My knees weakened.

Declan saw it.

“You want privacy?”

I almost said yes.

Then I realized I didn’t.

“No.”

We sat inside Declan’s car twenty minutes later.

Rain streaked the windows.

Ronan drove.

No one spoke while I opened the envelope.

The letter was short.

Lena,

If you’re reading this, things probably went worse than I hoped.

Please don’t pay them.

I know you.

You’ll think my choices became your responsibility because that’s what you always do.

They didn’t.

Rourke offered me money after the hospital said the trial wasn’t covered. I signed because I was scared. But there was another paper he wanted me to sign later. Something involving you.

I refused.

If he shows you anything with your name on it, it isn’t real.

I’m sorry.

I wanted more time.

But I don’t want the time I borrowed to cost you the rest of your life.

Go live one.

Please.

Sophie.

The page blurred.

I read the final line three times.

Go live one.

Please.

I had spent eighteen months doing the opposite.

Working.

Paying.

Surviving.

Never living.

I pressed the letter against my mouth.

Declan stared out the opposite window, giving me the illusion of privacy without leaving.

“Sophie knew,” I whispered.

He turned.

“She knew he might come after me.”

“She tried to protect you.”

“I never found this.”

“Because Rourke had the file.”

The anger arrived suddenly.

Cleaner than grief.

Hotter.

“He took her letter.”

“Yes.”

“He knew she told me not to pay.”

“Yes.”

“And he stood outside her hospital room and lied to my face.”

Declan’s voice lowered.

“Yes.”

I wiped my tears away.

“I want him destroyed.”

Ronan’s eyes appeared briefly in the rearview mirror.

Declan watched me carefully.

“Be specific.”

I understood why.

Men like Declan could interpret that sentence differently.

“I don’t want him dead.”

“Good.”

“I want every woman he trapped released from whatever contract he invented. I want every dollar traced. I want his clubs closed. And I want him to sit somewhere with nothing to do except remember the moment he realized women he thought were powerless took everything from him.”

Declan stared at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re looking at me strangely.”

“You collapsed less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“And?”

“And now you’re outlining the systematic destruction of a criminal enterprise.”

I folded Sophie’s letter carefully.

“Sleep helped.”

Ronan laughed from the front seat.

Declan almost did.

Almost.

When we returned to the mansion, the mood changed immediately.

Patrick Crane was waiting.

He stood beside the fireplace in Declan’s study.

Sixty-three years old.

Silver hair.

Tailored suit.

The reassuring appearance of somebody’s wealthy grandfather.

I had served him coffee dozens of times.

“Declan,” Patrick said. “Thank God.”

Declan closed the door.

“For what?”

“I heard Velvet Saint was attacked.”

Declan stared at him.

“Interesting.”

Patrick frowned.

“What?”

“I hadn’t told anyone where we were.”

Silence.

Patrick’s face changed by less than an inch.

But I saw it.

So did Declan.

“Sit down,” Declan said.

Patrick didn’t.

“What exactly is happening?”

Declan placed one of the ledgers on the desk.

Patrick looked at it.

Then at Ronan.

Then at me.

Recognition.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

He knew.

My stomach tightened.

Declan spoke softly.

“You processed payments.”

Patrick sighed.

“Declan—”

“You processed money from women Mason Rourke threatened into prostitution.”

Patrick looked offended.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

Something inside the room shifted.

Declan’s face emptied.

That frightened me more than anger would have.

Patrick continued.

“Rourke runs loans. People fail to repay. Collateral gets collected. This is how the world works.”

My hands curled into fists.

“They were women.”

“They were debtors.”

I stepped forward.

Declan caught my wrist.

Not restraining.

Reminding.

Patrick looked at me dismissively.

“Miss Mercer, I understand emotions are involved—”

“You forged my signature.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You helped the people who did.”

Patrick looked toward Declan.

“Get her out of here.”

Nobody moved.

Patrick blinked.

“Declan.”

Declan walked behind his desk.

“You worked for my father.”

“Yes.”

“You held my brother when he was dying.”

Patrick’s face softened.

“I loved your family.”

“No.”

Declan opened the ledger.

“You loved access.”

Patrick’s jaw tightened.

“You have no idea what I protected you from.”

“I’m listening.”

“Mason Rourke isn’t the top of this.”

Silence.

Declan leaned forward.

“Who is?”

Patrick hesitated.

Then smiled.

And I realized the old man believed he still had leverage.

“You think Velvet Saint matters?”

Patrick shook his head.

“It is one club in one city.”

Declan’s voice turned cold.

“Who?”

Patrick looked at me.

“She shouldn’t be here.”

Declan didn’t hesitate.

“She stays.”

Something passed through Patrick’s expression.

Disapproval.

Maybe disbelief.

“You’re becoming sentimental.”

Declan’s eyes hardened.

“You have five seconds.”

Patrick exhaled.

“Rourke answers to Camden Vale.”

Even Ronan reacted.

I didn’t know the name.

I learned later why everyone else did.

Camden Vale controlled half the illegal lending on the East Coast.

And fifteen years earlier, he had been accused of arranging the murder of Declan Walsh’s father.

The accusation had never been proven.

Now Patrick was telling us he had been inside Declan’s organization the entire time.

Declan stared at the man who had known him since childhood.

“You worked for Vale.”

Patrick answered softly.

“I survived.”

Declan’s voice cracked like ice.

“So did I.”

Patrick reached inside his jacket.

Ronan moved.

Declan moved faster.

But Patrick wasn’t reaching for a gun.

He pulled out a phone.

He pressed one button.

Somewhere outside, an explosion shook the windows.

The room erupted.

Glass shattered.

Alarms screamed.

Declan crossed the distance between us and threw his body over mine as part of the ceiling collapsed.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, I found myself on the floor.

Only this time, Declan Walsh was beneath the falling glass.

And I was the one holding onto him.