The Waitress Ignored The Rude Mafia Boss—He Roared, "Bring Me The Girl Who Refused Me!" The most feared man in the lounge snapped his fingers at me, and I walked away from his table.

The private jet landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport as the sun set over Paris, painting the sky in bruised hues of purple and orange.

Clara sat silently in the back of the armored town car as it navigated the narrow Parisian streets. Lorenzo held her hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles against her skin.

"If she's there," Clara said softly, staring out the window, "I don't even know what I'm going to say to her."

"You don't have to say anything," Lorenzo assured her. "I will do the talking."

Answer one: Clara’s mother hadn't been living a life of luxury. The café in the photograph was in a gritty, working-class arrondissement on the outskirts of the city.

The car pulled up to the curb. The café, Le Petit Chien, was small and dimly lit.

Lorenzo and Clara stepped out, flanked by Marcus and two undercover guards.

They walked inside. The bell above the door chimed softly.

Standing behind the espresso machine, wiping a counter with a tired, familiar motion, was Eleanor Vance.

Clara stopped breathing.

Eleanor looked up. When she saw Clara, the rag slipped from her hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

"Clara," Eleanor whispered, her voice breaking. She looked older, haunted, but it was undeniably her.

"Mom," Clara choked out, the anger she had felt on the plane completely evaporating, replaced by the sheer, desperate shock of seeing a ghost.

Eleanor rushed from behind the counter, throwing her arms around Clara. They wept, clutching each other in the empty café.

"I'm so sorry," Eleanor sobbed into Clara’s shoulder. "I had to leave. If I stayed, they would have killed you and Maya."

"Who, Mom?" Clara pulled back, her tear-streaked face fierce. "Vincent is in prison. He’s gone."

"Not Vincent," a smooth voice echoed from the back of the café.

Lorenzo instantly pushed Clara behind him, his hand reaching for his concealed weapon.

Stepping out of the shadows near the kitchen was a man in an immaculate white suit. He had silver hair and a cold, aristocratic smile.

"Vincent was a middleman," the man said smoothly. "A regional manager playing at being a king."

Open two: If Vincent wasn't the true threat, who is this man? And what does he want with Eleanor’s ledger?

"Who are you?" Lorenzo demanded.

"My name is Julianus," the man smiled. "I represent the global syndicate that Vincent was funneling money to. The ledger your mother stole didn't just expose Vincent. It exposed us."

"The microfilm was destroyed," Lorenzo said flatly.

"Yes, but the knowledge wasn't," Julianus said, gesturing to Eleanor. "Your mother has photographic memory, Lorenzo. She knows account numbers, routing codes, and the names of corrupt politicians across Europe. We have been hunting her for ten years. And you kindly led us right to her."

Clara’s blood ran cold. The photograph wasn't a warning; it was a trap. Julianus hadn't known exactly which café Eleanor was in—he had sent the photo of the neighborhood to Lorenzo, knowing Lorenzo would use his vast resources to pinpoint her location.

"You used us as bloodhounds," Lorenzo realized, his eyes narrowing.

"Efficient, isn't it?" Julianus chuckled. He snapped his fingers.

Four heavily armed men stepped out from the kitchen, raising suppressed automatic weapons.