THE EMPTY SEAT AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE

The dining room went dead silent. The kind of silence that rings in your ears.

Harlan hadn’t just spoken out of turn. He had challenged Matteo Leone in front of the entire waterfront syndicate, right here in the main dining room of the Leone estate. I gripped the condensation-slicked handle of the water pitcher so hard my knuckles turned white.

Matteo didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t reach for a weapon. He simply stood at the head of the table, his dark eyes locked on the man who had overseen his docks for over a decade.

“You’re staying where you are,” Matteo repeated. It wasn’t a question. It was a terrifyingly calm observation.

“That’s right,” Harlan said. He adjusted his suit jacket, though I could see a faint tremor in his fingers. “Because Leonard and I have an understanding. Isn’t that right, Leonard?”

Mr. Price stood frozen. His cane trembled against the hardwood floor. He looked from Harlan to Matteo, his weathered face draining of color.

“Tell him, Leonard,” Harlan urged softly. “Tell Mr. Leone that you’d rather sit in the back. That you don’t have anything to say about the diverted shipment after all.”

I watched Mr. Price’s throat work. He was a proud man, a foreman who had worked the docks since before I was born. But right now, he looked terrified.

Harlan reached into his breast pocket. For a wild second, I thought he was pulling a gun. Several of Matteo’s men at the edge of the room shifted their weight, hands disappearing beneath their tailored coats.

But Harlan didn’t pull a weapon. He pulled out a small, tarnished silver locket on a broken chain.

He didn’t hold it up for the room to see. He just laid it gently on the pristine white tablecloth, right next to his untouched bread plate.

Mr. Price gasped. It was a small, broken sound, quickly swallowed, but in that silent room, it echoed like a gunshot.

“Where did you get that?” Mr. Price whispered, his voice cracking.

“I found it,” Harlan said smoothly, not looking at the old man, but at Matteo. “It was left behind at the warehouse. The wrong warehouse. I thought I’d bring it to return to its rightful owner. But we need to agree on how tonight’s presentation is going to go first.”

Celia stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply. “Matteo, please. This is exactly the kind of disruption I was trying to avoid. Let me escort Mr. Price to the drawing room—”

“Silence,” Matteo said. He didn’t even look at her. His gaze dropped to the silver locket.

I knew that locket.

An hour earlier, when Mr. Price had first arrived at the estate, I had taken his coat. He had been holding a worn photograph of a little girl, maybe six or seven years old. My granddaughter, Lily, he had told me with a proud, tired smile. She wears her grandmother’s locket. Never takes it off.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Harlan hadn’t just diverted a shipment of goods. He had taken the old man’s granddaughter.

“Leonard,” Matteo said softly. “Whose is that?”

Mr. Price closed his eyes. Tears leaked through his wrinkled lids. “It’s Lily’s. My Lily.”

Harlan smiled, a cold, corporate curving of the lips. “She dropped it. But don’t worry, Leonard. She’s safe. For now. Assuming we can all sit down like gentlemen and agree that the shipment was rerouted due to a simple clerical error on your part.”

He was blackmailing the foreman in plain sight. He was forcing Mr. Price to take the fall for the missing shipment, using a little girl’s life as the price of admission.

Matteo finally looked at Harlan. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“You bring a man’s family into my home,” Matteo said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You place a threat on my table.”

“I’m protecting my interests,” Harlan countered, though his arrogant facade was beginning to crack under Matteo’s dead-eyed stare. “The waterfront is changing, Matteo. You need me. You need the connections I’ve built. The shipment is secure. Sign the new agreement, let Leonard take his retirement, and everyone goes home happy.”

Harlan picked up his wineglass, projecting an air of total control.

I couldn’t take it anymore. The pitcher in my hand felt heavy. My hands were shaking. I stepped forward, pretending to reach for Harlan’s water goblet.

As I did, I let my foot catch deliberately on the thick Persian rug.

I stumbled forward. The heavy crystal water pitcher slipped from my grasp and crashed directly onto the table, shattering into pieces. Iced water and jagged glass exploded across Harlan’s plate, soaking his tailored suit, his lap, and the folder containing his precious agreement.

Harlan leaped up with a furious shout, knocking his heavy wooden chair backward.

“You stupid girl!” he roared, swiping at his soaked trousers.

“I am so sorry, sir!” I cried, dropping to my knees to gather the broken glass.

But I wasn’t looking at the glass. In the chaos, as Harlan jumped back, the silver locket had slid off the table and fallen to the floor.

I scooped it up in my palm. And as I did, my fingers brushed against something else that had fallen from Harlan’s pocket when he jumped.

A crumpled valet parking ticket.

It wasn’t for the Leone estate. The logo stamped on the bright yellow paper belonged to the Arcadia Hotel—a high-end establishment downtown. And the timestamp printed in bold black ink wasn’t from hours ago.

It was stamped for 6:15 PM. Tonight. Just thirty minutes ago.

Harlan hadn’t been preparing for the dinner all afternoon like he claimed. He had been at the hotel.

Before I could hide the ticket, a hand clamped down on my wrist like a vice.

I looked up, terrified. It was Celia.