The massive man in the back booth shifted, turning his head slightly to listen to another guard.

Outside, a massive chrome delivery truck rumbled past the diner's front window. The harsh desert sun bounced violently off the truck's polished side panel, slicing a blinding beam of light through the dim, smoky air of the diner.

It struck the man in the back booth, illuminating the left side of his face.

Harper's breath stopped dead in her throat.

A thick, jagged, faded scar stretched from the base of his neck, disappearing up under his jawline.

Her heart skipped a beat, then slammed against her ribs with terrifying force. Her fingers went numb.

The stainless steel fork slipped from her grasp, hitting the ceramic plate with a loud, sharp clatter.

Chloe jumped, nearly dropping her burger. "Jesus, what is your problem?"

Harper couldn't hear her.

Her hands dove into her Birkin, tearing through the contents until she pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling so badly she mistyped her passcode twice.

She opened the hidden folder, pulling up the grainy photo she had stolen from her father's safe.

She zoomed in on the man's neck until the pixels blurred. She looked up at the man in the booth, then down at the screen. The image on her phone was blurry, but the combination was undeniable: the same custom watch, the same brutal jawline, and now, a jagged scar exactly where a deep shadow had fallen in the photograph. It had to be him.

A violent mixture of pure terror and electric adrenaline exploded in her bloodstream.

This was him. The cleaner. The man who knew where the bastard son was.

Harper wiped her slick, sweating palms against the expensive silk of her dress.

She pushed herself up from the booth, her knees shaking so badly they nearly knocked her water glass over.

"I need to use the restroom," Harper said, her voice cracking and hoarse.

Chloe didn't even look up from her phone screen.

Harper stepped out of the booth, standing in the center of the narrow aisle. She sucked in a lungful of greasy air, forcing her spine to straighten.

Her heels clicked loudly against the black-and-white checkered linoleum.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The sound echoed over the low hum of the diner.

As she closed the distance, the outer ring of guards instantly sensed the shift in the room. Their broad shoulders tensed. Three of them casually, smoothly slipped their right hands inside their suit jackets.

Harper ignored the lethal threat.

She stopped exactly three feet away from the edge of his table, staring down at the top of his dark head.

He was still looking down at his coffee.

Slowly, deliberately, the man lifted his chin.

The man finally raised his eyes to meet hers—pitch black, bottomless, and entirely devoid of human warmth.

Harper felt all the oxygen leave her lungs, as if a predator had just locked its jaws around her throat. Her stomach plummeted.

Forcing her trembling legs forward, she took a half-step.

Instantly, a heavy-set guard stepped into her path, a solid wall of muscle completely blocking her view of the boss.

"Back off, lady," the massive guard growled, his voice a low, vibrating threat that rattled in her chest.

Harper refused to look at him, her eyes pinned on the man sitting behind him. "We need to talk," she said, her voice tight but loud enough to carry.

The boss didn't blink. Not a single muscle in his face moved. He slowly lifted his cheap ceramic mug and took a sip of black coffee.

He was treating her like she didn't exist.

The absolute, chilling dismissal burned Harper's skin like acid. A hot flush of humiliation and rage shot up her neck.

She shoved her hand against the guard's solid chest in a futile attempt to push past him.

The guard's eyes darkened. He whipped his hand out, clamping his thick fingers around Harper's slender wrist.

He squeezed.

A sharp, blinding pain shot up Harper's arm. She gasped, her bones grinding together under his crushing grip.

Just as she thought her wrist would snap, the boss lazily raised his left index finger.

The guard instantly released her, stepping back as if burned.

Harper cradled her throbbing wrist against her chest, her skin already turning red. She glared at the man in the booth.

"I am Harper Bright," she spat, throwing her family name like a weapon.

The man's face remained carved from stone.

He slowly raised his left arm, staring at his custom silver watch for three agonizing seconds.

Then, he tilted his head slightly toward his men.

It was a silent command.

The guards moved in unison, the heavy fabric of their suits rustling ominously.

Harper planted her feet, refusing to move.

The boss stood up. He was massive, easily six-foot-four, his broad shoulders blocking out the diner lights. Harper was instantly swallowed by his shadow. She smelled the dark, heavy scent of expensive tobacco mixed with a cold, sterile scent like ozone after a lightning strike, utterly devoid of warmth.

He didn't look at her. He turned his body sideways and stepped smoothly past, his arm brushing the air inches from her face.

Panic seized Harper's chest. If he walked out that door, she lost her only lead. She spun around and lunged, but a wall of heavy-set guards instantly closed the gap, their broad shoulders an impenetrable barrier. She couldn't reach him. She planted her feet, hissing through her teeth, her voice cutting through the diner.

"I know about your meeting with Howard Bright in Manhattan!"

The muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his sleeve turned to solid iron.

He stopped walking, slowly and deliberately turning his head to look over his shoulder. His dead eyes dropped to her pale face, glaring at him from behind the wall of his men.

Around them, the guards instantly reached inside their jackets, the metallic click of gun holsters unlatching cutting through the silent diner.

The man raised a single, slow hand.

The guards froze.

He turned his body fully toward Harper, his dark eyes scanning her face like a machine evaluating a target.

His lips parted. "If you know who I am," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in her bones, "then what exactly do you want?"

Harper swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. "I want the name and location of Howard's bastard son."

A short, dark sound rumbled in the man's chest—a laugh, entirely devoid of humor.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Information like that costs more than you can afford to bleed, sweetheart."

Harper's Manhattan arrogance flared, burning away her terror. She stood her ground, refusing to back down.

Ignoring the tensing guards, she shoved her hand into her bag, pulled out her leather wallet, and produced a shiny, silver quarter.

She pinched the coin between her thumb and index finger, holding it up to his face.

"Heads, you answer one question," Harper challenged, her voice ringing clear. "Tails, you walk out that door, and I never bother you again."

The man stared at the quarter. A dark, predatory amusement flickered in the depths of his black eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, curving into a slow, dangerous smirk.

He took a heavy step forward, completely invading her personal space. The heat radiating off his massive body made Harper's skin prickle.

He lowered his head until his mouth was hovering right next to her ear. "Vegas isn't a place for little girls to play games," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin.

Harper bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. She refused to step back.

"Are you afraid of losing a coin toss?" she mocked.

His eyes darkened to pitch black.

He stepped back, leaning his heavy frame against the edge of the sticky diner counter. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, projecting absolute, terrifying control, and gave her one slow, deliberate nod.

Harper sucked in a breath.

Her thumb flicked hard against the metal. The quarter shot into the air, spinning rapidly under the flickering fluorescent lights.

It hit the counter with a sharp ping.

Harper slammed her palm down flat over the coin, trapping it.