The Blue Moon Café was a dimly lit haven, its air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and cinnamon. The jukebox in the corner hummed a scratchy jazz tune, barely audible over the murmur of late-night patrons—tired cabbies, insomniac writers, and the occasional drifter nursing a cheap meal. Lena Hart pushed through the door, her hood still up, her eyes scanning the room for threats. Max followed, the ledger a heavy weight inside his jacket, his expression sour. Riley Kane was next, her energy undimmed by the rain or the chase, her camera bag slung over her shoulder. Daniel Carter brought up the rear, his journalist's instincts making him linger at the threshold, watching the street for signs of Tate's men.
Lena's pulse hadn't slowed since the parking garage. The cold, commanding voice she
