the bartender fed the silent girl every night until her crime boss father walked in. but the child had chosen josie for a reason no one in boston could survive.

The hum of the jukebox faded into total silence as Tate’s words hung in the rain-chilled air of Callahan’s Pub.

“Her mother died?” Josie repeated, her voice barely louder than the patter of rain against the glass. She looked down at Mila, whose tiny fingers were still hooked into the fabric of Josie’s apron.

Constantine Voss did not look at Josie. His gaze remained locked on Tate, whose body was trembling so violently that his knees rattled against the worn wooden floorboards.

“Three years ago,” Constantine said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet carrying a lethal edge that made the air in the pub feel thin. “My wife, Elena, was killed in a hit-and-run outside our estate in Brookline. The driver was never found.” He paused, his dark eyes shifting to Tate. “And you are telling me that someone has been paying you to spy on my daughter ever since?”

“Not ever since,” Tate choked out, blood dripping from his split lip onto his collar. “Just... just the last three months. He contacted me through a burner phone left in my locker at the docks. He knew I had gambling debts. He paid me ten thousand cash every two weeks just to send location updates on the kid.”

“And why did you bring her here?” Josie demanded, stepping forward despite the guard’s hand resting near his holster. “You brought her to this pub every single night at six o'clock sharp. You ordered a burger you never ate while she sat here starving until I gave her food.”

Tate swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically toward the front doors where the black sedans sat idling. “Because... because the buyer told me to! He said the girl needed to be in a public place with a predictable routine. He said... he said she was choosing her new mother.”

The room seemed to freeze.

Josie felt the blood drain from her face. “What did you just say?”

“That was the phrase!” Tate sobbed, pressing his hands together in a desperate plea. “He said, ‘Let the child pick her keeper. The bartender with the sick brother will do.’ I swear to God, Mr. Voss, I didn't know what it meant! I thought it was just about keeping her quiet!”

Constantine stood motionless. The scar above his right eyebrow stood out stark against his pale skin. He turned slowly toward Josie, his dark eyes searching her face with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.

“Your brother,” Constantine murmured softly. “Leo. He has acute myeloid leukemia. He’s currently on the fourth floor of Massachusetts General Hospital.”

Josie’s hands closed into fists. “You do know me. How?”

“I know everyone who enters my territory,” Constantine said calmly. “When Tate began bringing Mila here two months ago, my security team ran a background check on every employee at Callahan’s. I knew you were twenty-six. I knew you worked seventy hours a week between this pub and a diner in Southie to pay for your brother’s experimental trial. I knew you were harmless.”

“Harmless?” Josie let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “You let your dirty enforcer drag a traumatized six-year-old child in here every night, using her as bait, while you monitored me like a lab rat?”

“I didn't know Tate was hurting her,” Constantine said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sent a shiver down Josie’s spine. “If I had known he put a finger on her, he would not be kneeling right now. He would already be at the bottom of the Charles River.”

Mila suddenly tugged on Josie’s sleeve.

Josie dropped to her knees, taking the girl’s small, cold hands in her own. “What is it, Mila?”

Mila pointed a tiny finger at the drawing on the table—the drawing of the black house and the red flame. Then, she raised her hand and pointed directly at Constantine’s lapel.

Pinned to the silk lining of Constantine’s overcoat was a small silver lapel pin shaped like a crossed key and dagger—the crest of the Voss Syndicate.

“He has one,” Mila whispered. It was her third sentence.

Constantine stared at his daughter, his composure cracking for the first time. He reached down, unpinning the silver crest from his coat, and held it in his palm.

“Who has one, Mila?” Constantine asked softly, dropping to one knee beside Josie. “Who wears this pin?”