THE NIGHT MANHATTAN’S MOST FEARED MAFIA BOSS WALKED INTO MY RESTAURANT, I WAS CROUCHED BESIDE HIS ELDERLY MOTHER WITH A GLASS OF ORANGE JUICE IN ONE HAND AND HER TREMBLING FINGERS WRAPPED AROUND THE OTHER. I didn’t know who she was. That was probably the only reason I treated her normally.

The town car's tires hissed against the wet asphalt as we sped north toward Westchester. Inside the cabin, the silence was deafening.

I stared at the small, green claim ticket in my hand. For Emily, when the wolves come back.

My father was a mathematician. He didn't use metaphors. If he wrote about wolves, he meant predators. He meant the Morettis.

"He knew," I whispered, running my thumb over his precise handwriting. "My dad knew they wouldn't stop with him. He knew they would eventually come for me."

Vincent stared at the ticket, his jaw set in a hard line. For the first time since he walked into my restaurant, he looked genuinely rattled. "Thomas never mentioned a locker. He brought me that watch three days before he died. He must have hidden the ticket inside hoping I would eventually give it to you."

"Or hoping you would open it yourself," I said, looking up at him. "What if it's something he wanted you to find?"

"We can't go to Grand Central now," Vincent said, pulling out his phone. "It's too exposed. I'll send a team to retrieve whatever is in that locker."

"No." The word left my mouth before I could think about it.

Vincent stopped dialing and looked at me, his dark eyes narrowing. "Emily, you don't understand the people we are dealing with. Carlo Moretti isn't a businessman. He's a butcher. If he knows you're looking into Thomas's past—"

"I don't care," I interrupted, my voice finding a steel I didn't know I possessed. I tightened my grip on the sleeping Leo. "My father died thinking he was a failure. He died apologizing to me because he couldn't afford to keep the heat on. If he left something behind—a message, a life insurance policy, evidence—I am the one who is going to retrieve it. Not your men."

Vincent studied my face. I expected him to argue, to issue a command, to act like the mafia boss the rumors painted him to be.

Instead, he slowly lowered his phone. "You have your father's stubbornness." He leaned forward and tapped the glass partition. "Marcus. Turn around. Grand Central."

The massive terminal was nearly deserted at two in the morning. The grand chandeliers cast long, haunting shadows across the marble floors. Vincent didn't bring a massive entourage. He walked beside me, his coat collar turned up, while his driver, Marcus, stayed ten paces behind, watching the exits.

I held Leo tightly to my chest. He was a heavy weight, but his steady breathing grounded me.

We found the bank of old metal lockers near the lower-level dining concourse. I matched the number on the green ticket—Locker 402.

My hands shook as I slid the ticket into the automated slot. The machine hummed, and with a heavy clank, the small metal door popped open.

Inside the dusty locker was a single object.

It wasn't a letter. It wasn't a stash of money.

It was a thick, black leather-bound ledger.

I reached in and pulled it out. It was heavy. I opened it to the first page. The columns were filled with my father's immaculate handwriting. But it wasn't math equations.

It was a list of names, dates, port shipments, and massive dollar amounts.

Vincent stepped closer, his eyes scanning the page. All the color drained from his face.

"This isn't possible," Vincent breathed.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a shadow ledger," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "A complete, unedited record of the Moretti family's offshore money laundering operations. The exact shipments, the exact bribes paid to port officials, the routing numbers." He looked at me, completely stunned. "Your father didn't just take the fall, Emily. He investigated them. He spent his last three years tracking their entire criminal empire."

My chest swelled with a sudden, overwhelming pride. My father hadn't been a victim. He had been a soldier fighting a silent war from our kitchen table.

"With this," Vincent said, carefully closing the book, "I can dismantle Carlo Moretti's entire operation by morning. I can hand this to the Feds anonymously, and Carlo will go back to prison for the rest of his life."

"Then let's go," I said, a wave of relief washing over me.

But as we turned back toward the main concourse, Marcus suddenly stopped. His hand moved smoothly inside his jacket, resting on the grip of his weapon.

Standing at the top of the marble stairs, blocking our exit, were four men in heavy winter coats.

The man in the center was older, with a deeply scarred face and a cruel, relaxed smile.

Carlo Moretti.

"Vincent," Carlo called out, his voice echoing loudly in the empty terminal. "It's been a long time. And I see you finally found Thomas Carter's missing homework."

Vincent stepped slightly in front of me, shielding Leo and the ledger. "You're violating your parole, Carlo. You shouldn't be here."

"I came to collect what's mine," Carlo said, walking slowly down the stairs. "Thomas stole that ledger from my servers before he died. I've spent three years looking for it. Hand it over, Vincent. Or I take it from the girl, and I leave you both bleeding on this beautiful marble floor."

Before Vincent could draw his weapon, a loud, metallic click echoed from behind us.

I spun around.