THE NIGHT CHICAGO’S MOST FEARED MAFIA BOSS WALKED INTO MY RESTAURANT, I WAS KNEELING BESIDE HIS MOTHER WITH HER EXPENSIVE COAT WRAPPED AROUND MY SHOULDERS—AND I HAD NO IDEA WHO SHE WAS. I knew I was in trouble the moment the front doors opened. Not because anyone said his name.

The ride to my apartment in Logan Square took twenty minutes.

I sat in the back of a black SUV that smelled of expensive leather and rain, with Evelyn beside me and Lorenzo sitting in the front passenger seat.

“David is a coward,” I whispered, staring out the tinted window. “He ran when my sister died. He left me to raise Lily. He wouldn’t have the nerve to steal from the mob.”

“Desperate men do not require nerve,” Lorenzo said without turning around. “They only require an opportunity. What did he hide?”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

When the SUV pulled up to my brick walk-up, two of Lorenzo’s massive men stepped out of a trailing car and flanked the entrance before I even opened my door.

I ran up the two flights of stairs, my heart pounding against my ribs.

I fumbled with my keys, unlocking the deadbolt.

The apartment was quiet. The small lamp in the living room was on. Mrs. Higgins, the elderly neighbor who watched Lily during my evening shifts, was asleep in the armchair, the television playing on mute.

I rushed past her into the small bedroom.

Lily was fast asleep, her blonde hair spread across the pillow, clutching her stuffed rabbit.

I let out a ragged breath, leaning against the doorframe. She was safe.

Lorenzo appeared behind me in the narrow hallway. He moved with zero sound, a ghost in a bespoke suit. He looked at the sleeping child, and the hard, sharp angles of his jaw softened for just a fraction of a second.

Then, his eyes shifted to the bedroom window.

His posture changed instantly. The predator returned.

He walked past me, his footsteps silent on the cheap linoleum, and stopped in front of the glass.

“Grace,” Lorenzo whispered.

I stepped into the room.

The window was locked from the inside. The latch was secure.

But resting on the inside sill, right next to Lily’s collection of painted seashells, was a single, closed matchbook.

It was bright red, with a gold crest embossed on the front.

I had dusted that windowsill this morning. The matchbook hadn’t been there.

“Someone was inside,” I breathed, a cold sweat breaking out on my neck. “While we were sleeping. Or while Mrs. Higgins was watching TV.”

Lorenzo picked up the matchbook using a handkerchief from his pocket. He didn’t open it. He recognized the crest immediately.

“Victor Vance,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a lethal quiet.

“Who is Victor Vance?”

“A loan shark who operates out of the South Side. A man who does not care if women or children are collateral damage.” Lorenzo turned to face me. “David didn’t hide something of Victor’s, Grace. He stole it. And Victor knows David left it with you.”

“I don’t have anything!” I argued, my voice rising before I caught myself and looked at Lily. “I work double shifts to pay for her asthma medication. If I had something valuable, I would have sold it.”

“Victor doesn’t believe that.”

Lorenzo put the matchbook in his pocket. He looked at the peeling wallpaper of my apartment, the cheap locks on the doors, and the vulnerable ground-floor fire escape outside the window.

“Pack a bag,” Lorenzo ordered.

“What? No. This is our home. I’ll call the police.”

“The police cannot protect you from Victor Vance,” Lorenzo said, stepping closer. His size overwhelmed the tiny bedroom, but he didn’t use it to intimidate me. He used it as a shield. “Victor left this matchbook to tell you he can touch your niece whenever he wants. He wants you terrified.”

I looked at Lily’s sleeping face, feeling a wave of absolute helplessness.

“I can’t afford a hotel,” I whispered, hating how broken my voice sounded.