The son of the most feared mafia boss in the city was lying injured and freezing in Central Park, and I—a homeless girl people walked past like I didn’t exist—was the only one who stopped. I gave him the coat keeping me alive, but when his father arrived with armed men, one desperate sentence from the boy stopped me from disappearing—and changed my life forever.

The snowy rain beat against the bulletproof windows of the Maybach as we drove through the industrial district of lower Manhattan.

Vincent, Silas—who was recovering well with his arm in a black sling—and I sat in the rear compartment.

“Where are we going?” I asked, looking out at the rusted cranes and abandoned shipping warehouses along the Hudson River.

“To finish your father’s work,” Vincent replied, holding a sleek black laptop on his lap. “Your father told me that if anything ever happened to him, his complete ledger—including the master decryption key—was hidden in a private safety deposit box at the Manhattan Safety Deposit Vault on Pier 42.”

“Why wait until now?” I asked.

“Because the box could only be opened by two things,” Vincent explained, looking at me with deep solemnity. “Arthur’s biometric signature... or his biological heir.”

Ten minutes later, the Maybach pulled into the underground garage of an old, fortress-like concrete building near the docks. Heavy iron doors closed behind us, cutting off the noise of the storm outside.

A frail, white-haired manager led us down into a subterranean vault lined with brass deposit boxes dating back to the 1920s. He stopped in front of Box 408.

“Place your hand on the scanner, Miss Miller,” the manager instructed.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I stepped forward. I pressed my palm flat against the glass panel mounted on the heavy metal box.

A soft red light scanned my skin.

Beep. Biometric match confirmed. Access granted.

The heavy brass lock clicked open.

Inside lay a heavy black leather notebook and a silver-plated USB drive engraved with my father’s initials: A.M.

I picked up the notebook, hugging it tightly against my chest. Tears finally spilled over my lashes. It smelled like my father’s old study—faint notes of pipe tobacco and old paper.

“We have it,” I whispered.

Suddenly, the lights in the subterranean vault flickered and died.

The heavy steel blast door of the vault slammed shut with a deafening bang, locking us inside the dark chamber.

Over the vault’s intercom system, a distorted, mocking voice crackled to life.

“Thank you for retrieving the ledger, Miss Miller. Dominic Falcone may be dead, but the syndicate’s board of directors extends its deepest gratitude.”

Silas instantly drew his weapon, guarding the door, while Vincent pulled me behind his massive frame.

“It’s Victor Falcone,” Vincent muttered under his breath, his eyes cold as ice. “Dominic’s younger brother. He took over the remaining cartel assets.”

“You’re trapped in a airtight vault fifty feet underground, Moretti!” Victor’s voice laughed over the speaker. “In twenty minutes, the oxygen pumps will turn off. Leave the ledger on the table, and maybe I’ll let the girl walk out alive.”

Vincent didn't look scared. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy detonator switch.

“Did you really think I’d walk into an underground vault without planting charges on the main power lines, Victor?” Vincent spoke loudly toward the ceiling microphone.

Before Victor could respond, Vincent pressed the red button.

BOOM.

A muffled explosion shook the vault walls. The emergency lights flickered back on, and the heavy steel blast doors hissed as their hydraulic seals failed, swinging wide open.