The silence inside Callahan’s pub was absolute, thick with an unvoiced terror. Not a single glass clinked; even Phil, the bartender, had managed to muffle his heavy, raspy breathing.
Constantine Voss pulled back the collar of his tailored wool overcoat, revealing a faint scar trailing down the side of his throat. His dark, piercing eyes remained fixed on Josie Morrow. He took in her faded jeans, her dishwater- and grease-stained apron, and the fierce, unyielding fire burning behind her exhausted eyes.
"She hasn't eaten solid food in front of me since her mother died eight months ago," Constantine stated. His voice was a low, dark velvet rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards.
"She wasn't broken," Josie shot back, holding her ground despite the four looming, heavily armed bodyguards flanking the entrance. "She was just lonely. And terrified of that monster you assigned to protect her."
Constantine slowly turned his gaze toward the rain-streaked window. Outside, in the misty Boston night, a third Mercedes sedan was already disappearing down the street—with Tate locked securely in its trunk.
"Tate was a trusted soldier of my late father," Constantine murmured, his jaw locking into a line of pure iron. "He swore on his mother's grave to guard my daughter with his life while I consolidated my territory after the syndicate war. I did not realize he was using her silence as an opportunity to vent his own pathetic failures."
He looked back down at six-year-old Mila. Huddled in the booth, the little girl reached out with a small hand and tightly gripped the hem of Josie’s apron. Mila looked up at her father, then at Josie, and gave two firm, deliberate nods.
"She trusts you," Constantine noted, a flicker of genuine shock momentarily softening his ruthless features. "Mila has not touched or made eye contact with another human being without flinching since November. Yet she clings to you like a lifeline."
"Kids know who's real and who isn't," Josie replied quietly, reaching down to gently smooth Mila’s small, dark curls. "It doesn't take a genius to treat a child with basic decency, Mr. Voss."
One of the bodyguards—a towering brute with a shaved head and a tactical radio earpiece—stepped forward, leaning toward Constantine’s ear. "Boss. The perimeter is unstable. Don Moretti’s scouts were spotted two blocks away on Tremont Street. We need to move the princess to the safehouse immediately."
Constantine didn't so much as blink. Reaching into his coat pocket, he produced a sleek, obsidian business card embossed with a silver crest: a crown wrapped in winter ivy. He slid it across the wooden table toward Josie.
"My driver will be outside this pub tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock," Constantine commanded, his tone perfectly calm but leaving no room for argument. "You will be in the car."
Josie frowned, taking a slight step back. "Excuse me? I have a job, Mr. Voss. I have a brother in the hospital who needs—"
"I know all about your brother, Josie Morrow," Constantine interrupted. His voice dropped to a chilling register that made the hairs on the back of Josie's neck stand up. "Liam Morrow, twenty-two years old. Stage four kidney failure. Receiving dialysis three times a week at Massachusetts General. He is on the national transplant waitlist, but his rare blood type places him behind four hundred other patients. His medical bills currently sit at $94,000, and your landlord in Dorchester intends to evict you on Monday."
Josie’s breath hitched violently in her throat. Her blood ran ice-cold. "You... you investigated my life?"
"I am the head of the Voss syndicate," Constantine said simply. "I know the name of every person who draws breath within three miles of my city. But more importantly, you saved my daughter tonight. You stood up to a lethal predator with nothing in your hand but a pitcher of ice water."
He leaned closer, his dark eyes burning into hers. "I do not leave debts unpaid. Tomorrow at four. If you step into that car, your brother's entire medical debt vanishes before sunset, and he is moved to the top of the private donor list at Mass General."
Josie stared at the dark king of Boston, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. "And what do you want from me?"
Constantine looked down at Mila, who was watching Josie with wide, desperately hopeful eyes.
"I want you to bring my daughter back to life," Constantine whispered.