The three little girls stopped in front of me like they had been sent by fate, and one of them pointed at the tattoo on my arm. “Hello, sir,” she said softly. “Our mother has a tattoo exactly like yours.” For one frozen second, Central Park disappeared, the coffee in my hand went cold, and the scarred compass on my skin burned like a warning. Because that broken compass belonged to a night I had spent eight years trying to bury.

The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of shifting silk, gold leaf, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of expensive perfume and champagne. Hundreds of wealthy patrons moved like gilded ghosts beneath the massive crystal chandeliers, their faces obscured by ornate, glittering masks.

I kept my head down, navigating the perimeter of the room, my eyes searching the crowd. I didn't care about the politicians, the real estate moguls, or the diamond-dripping socialites. I was looking for one specific shade of green.

And then, I saw her.

Camila was standing near the grand staircase, surrounded by a court of older men in tailored tailcoats. She wore a deep crimson gown tonight, but her shoulders were completely bare. The concealer on her left shoulder was thicker than before, but from this distance, my eyes could trace the exact path of the needle.

My heart hammered against my ribs so loudly I was certain the people around me could hear it. I began to move through the crowd, pushing past waiters carrying silver trays of caviar and champagne.

As I approached, one of her companions stepped away, leaving her alone for a single, fleeting second.

I stepped into her path.

"May I have this dance?" I asked, my voice low, raspy, and stripped of the Brooklyn accent I had spent years cultivating. I used the exact cadence of the young soldier she had met in Seattle.

Camila froze. She looked up at me, her emerald eyes widening behind her gold filigree mask. She took a step back, her hand flying to her throat. "I... I don't believe we've met."

"We have," I whispered, stepping closer, blocking her from the view of the bodyguards standing near the pillars. "We met in a diner called The Blue Slipper when it was pouring rain. You told me you liked your coffee black, and that lost people deserved a symbol."

Camila gasped, the color draining from her lips. She staggered back, nearly losing her balance on her high heels. I reached out, my gloved hand catching her elbow, steadying her. Through the fabric of her dress, I could feel her trembling.

"Leo?" she whispered, her voice cracking with a terror so profound it broke my heart. "No... no, it can't be you. My father said you were..."

"Dead?" I asked, my jaw clenching. "Or did he just tell you I took the money he offered to walk away? Because I never saw a dime, Camila. And I never stopped looking for you."

"You have to leave," she whispered frantically, her eyes darting toward the two large men in dark suits who had begun to move toward us from the edge of the ballroom. "Now, Leo. If my father sees you here, he will destroy you. He will take everything you have left."

"He already took eight years of my daughters' lives," I said, my voice hardening. "I saw them in the park, Camila. Regina, Lucy, and Valerie. They pointed at my arm. They know the compass."

Camila’s hand began to shake violently. "They... they saw you?"

"Yes," I said. "And I'm not running this time."