BURY

FORGED

10:03 PM.

Vincent Valentino's downtown office was not an office. It was a church that had been turned into a bank that had been turned into a place where people prayed to money.

Black marble floors, white columns, no windows. One massive desk in the middle like an altar. On it: a silver cross, a stack of papers, and a single white lily in a vase. Funeral flower.

The same lilies he brought to our gates.

Damon's hand was on my lower back, pushing me forward through the side door his man had unlocked. We had 17 minutes before Vincent came back from prayer.

"You said he prays every night at 10 PM," I whispered.

"He does. For twenty minutes. He confesses what he did that day so God forgets."

"Does it work?"

"No."

The office smelled like old incense and new money. Cold.

Damon went to the desk, pulled on black gloves. I didn't have gloves. My hands were shaking too hard to put them on anyway.

"Search the drawers. Look for anything with your name - Lena Cruz - signature. Blue ink. He forges with a fountain pen, thick."

I opened the first drawer. Cash. Stacks. $100 bills, banded. More money than my foster mother made in five years.

Second drawer. Guns. Three of them. One with a silver grip. Same family crest.

Third drawer. Files. Manila folders, labeled: VALENTINO HOLDINGS, OFFSHORE, MARCO, MAYA R.

Maya R.

I pulled it.

Inside: Maya's timesheets. Her pay stubs. $18 an hour. And a photo - Maya at her desk in this same office, smiling, holding the red pen, unaware. On the back, in Maya's writing: _Day 12 - he told me I'm good at numbers. Day 19 - I found $2M missing._

My throat closed.

"Found something?" Damon was behind me, looking at a safe built into the wall, trying the code.

"Her file. He kept her file."

"Put it back exactly. We need the forged one."

Fourth drawer. Locked. Small key lock, not code.

Damon knelt, took a thin tool from his pocket, picked it in six seconds. Click.

Inside: one folder. Black. No label.

Inside that folder: one paper.

A bank transfer authorization. $47,000,000. From Valentino Holdings to V. Valentino Private Trust, Cayman Islands.

Authorized by: Damon Valentino - gold stamp.

Approved by: Lena Cruz - signature in blue ink.

My signature. Or what was supposed to be my signature. Loopy L, messy C. It looked like mine if you had only seen it once on a foster care form. But the tail on the 'a' was wrong. Maya always made fun of my tail - I looped it, this forger didn't.

"It's forged," I whispered, holding it up. "They forged my name."

Damon took it, looked at it, and his whole face went white with rage.

"He used your foster file. Your school signature. From when you were 16."

"How -"

"Marco. When Maya died, Marco went to your old group home. Said he was a social worker. Got your file."

The paper shook in my hand.

$47 million in my name. If this was filed tomorrow morning at 9 AM, I would be wanted for wire fraud. I would go to federal prison. Maya's murder would look like she was helping me steal.

They weren't just going to kill me. They were going to make sure no one believed me when I died.

"We have to take it," I said.

"No. We have to copy it. If we take it, he knows we were here. If we copy it, we can prove forgery later -"

The office lights turned on.

Bright. White. Floodlight bright.

The main door - the big church door - opened.

Vincent Valentino stood there in his white suit, silver ring glinting, holding a rosary. He was not supposed to be back for 14 more minutes. He was back early.

He looked at me holding the $47M paper. At Damon kneeling by the open drawer with lock picks in his hand.

He smiled.

"Lena," he said, soft, like praying. "I've been waiting for you to come steal back your own name."

He closed the door behind him. Locked it. Click. Big, old church lock.

Damon stood up slowly, putting himself between me and his uncle, gun already in his hand but not raised yet.

"Uncle. We were -"

"Praying?" Vincent finished, walking forward, rosary swinging. "Me too. I pray every night that my nephew doesn't betray me for a girl who opens caskets."

He stopped three feet from me. Looked at the paper in my hand.

"Is it good? The forgery? Marco did it. He practiced your signature for two weeks. From your little group home file. You have very childish handwriting, Lena. Very... foster."

He reached out, took the paper from my hand. I let him. My fingers were frozen.

He held it up to the light like it was art.

"$47 million. In your name. Filed tomorrow morning at 9 AM. Unless..."

He looked at Damon.

"Unless you give her to me tonight, Damon. One night. She stays in my house, not yours. We fix the signature. We say it was a mistake. Maya's overdose, your assistant's mistake - we can make it go away. Or -"

He looked back at me.

"Or you go to prison for stealing from the family that killed your sister. And Damon watches."

Silence. The silver cross on the desk glinted.

Damon's gun was up now. Pointed at Vincent's head.

"Let us leave."

"No."

"Vincent, I will shoot you in your own church."

"You won't. Because if you shoot me, the papers file automatically at 9 AM - my lawyer has orders. And Lena goes to prison for 20 years. You want her alive or you want her free? You can't have both."

He was right and we both knew it.

I looked at the paper. At my forged name. At the silver ring on his finger - the one from the security footage, the one that grabbed Maya at 2:14 AM.

"Why did you kill her?" I whispered. "Maya. Why? She was 22. She made $18 an hour."

Vincent sighed, like I was stupid.

"Because she counted. Girls who count always find the $47M. Girls who don't count - girls like you were supposed to be, Lena, who just sign where they're told - they live."

He stepped closer, reached out, and touched my silver dagger necklace again. Same as this afternoon. Tapped it.

"This is cute. Damon gave you a toy knife. Do you know what my father gave me when I was your age, Lena? A real knife. And he said - if you want to keep $47M, you cut out the person who counted it."

His finger stayed on my dagger. Cold.

Damon's gun clicked - safety off.

"Take your hand off her."

Vincent didn't. He leaned in, kissed my cheek this time, dry lips, incense breath, and whispered:

"You look just like her when she begged, Lena. Same little gasp. At 2:14 AM, Maya gasped just like that when I -"

Damon hit him.

Not shot. Hit. Fist to jaw, silver ring vs silver ring, gold vs silver, nephew vs uncle, cracking sound loud in the church office.

Vincent fell back onto his altar desk, white lilies crashing, silver cross falling, papers flying - including my forged $47M paper floating to the floor.

Damon grabbed my hand, grabbed the paper, and pulled me toward the side door.

We had 30 seconds before his men heard.

We ran. Black marble, white columns, forged signature in my fist, torn red dress memory still in my nose.

Behind us, Vincent on the floor, bleeding from the mouth, laughing, holding his rosary, shouted:

"9 AM, Lena! You have until 9 AM to come to my bed or go to prison! Bring the necklace! I want to see if the blade is real!"

The side door slammed. Cold night air. Damon's car, engine running.

We got in. He floored it.

In my lap: the $47M paper with my fake signature. Proof they were going to frame me. Proof we stole.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

One text, with a photo:

Photo of me in Vincent's office, taken from the corner camera, holding the paper. Timestamp 10:04 PM.

Text under it: _Thank you for breaking and entering. Now I have you on camera stealing family documents. 9 AM just became 8 AM. Come alone. - V_

Damon saw it and went pale.

"Lena, he recorded us."

I looked at the $47M paper. At the photo of me stealing it. At Damon's hands bleeding from punching his uncle.

We had proof of forgery, but we also had proof of burglary. And in 10 hours, I would be a federal felon unless...

Unless I went to Vincent's house alone.

Damon grabbed the paper and ripped it in half.

"What are you doing?!"

"Now there's no paper to file. But there's still the copy his lawyer has. We need the original from his lawyer's safe. Tonight."

"Where is his lawyer?"

Damon looked at the rearview mirror. A black Maybach was following us. Vincent's men.

"In his house. Where you're supposed to go alone at 8 AM."

He turned the wheel hard, toward the white mansion, toward the safe that was empty, toward my bedroom with the torn red dress on the floor and the camera behind the mirror.

"Change of plan," he said. "We're not waiting till 8 AM. We're going at 3 AM. When even the devil is asleep."