The melody was barely audible.

Three soft notes.

A pause.

Then four more.

But he knew it.

He had heard that lullaby only twice in his life.

Once, when he was seven years old, lying beneath a dining table while his mother sang to his baby sister.

And again, twenty years later, when his mother was dying in a hospital bed.

She had gripped his hand with what little strength remained and whispered:

“If you ever hear that song again, Reed, find the little girl. Don’t let them take her away twice.”

He had never understood what she meant.

Until now.

“Boss?” Pierce called through the doorway.

Reed didn’t answer.

His eyes remained fixed on Maisie’s scar.

“Pierce.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get Dr. Bennett. Quietly.”

Pierce frowned.

“Your hand?”

“Not for me.”

He glanced down at the sleeping maid.

“And nobody touches her.”

Pierce looked at Walsh.

Walsh looked at the fifteen armed men standing behind him.

Nobody asked another question.

At 2:47 a.m., Maisie woke to the smell of antiseptic and cold coffee.

For one disorienting moment, she didn’t recognize the room.

Then she saw the broken chandelier, the overturned furniture, and the enormous man sitting beside her.

She immediately straightened.

“Oh, my God. I’m sorry.”

Reed looked at her.

“For what?”

“I fell asleep.”

“Yes.”

“On you.”

“I noticed.”

Maisie rubbed her eyes.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because you were sleeping.”

She stared at him.

That answer was so unexpected that she almost laughed.

Then she noticed the fifteen men outside the room.

“Are they waiting for you?”

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t you go?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Reed looked at her for a long moment.

“Because I have a question.”

Maisie glanced at her forearm.

Her sleeve had slipped back, exposing the old burn scar.

She quickly pulled it down.

“About what?”

“Your childhood.”

Her expression changed.

“I don’t discuss that.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t remember most of it.”

“Do you remember your parents?”

“No.”

“Your first home?”

“No.”

“Anything before the age of six?”

Maisie shook her head.

“I remember a hospital. A woman crying. And sometimes I remember that song.”

Reed’s fingers тιԍнтened around the armrest.

“What song?”

She hesitated.

Then hummed the melody again.

The same seven notes.

Reed closed his eyes.

For the first time in fifteen years, the most feared man in Boston looked as though he might cry.

Dr. Bennett arrived twelve minutes later.

He was an older physician who had treated Reed’s organization for nearly two decades. He examined Reed’s hand, checked his blood pressure, and then turned toward Maisie.

“May I look at your arm?”

Maisie frowned.

“Why?”

“Because Mr. Ashford asked me to check something.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

Reed’s voice remained calm.

“Nobody is forcing you.”

Maisie looked between them.

Then she slowly pushed her sleeve upward.

The doctor examined the scar.

His expression became serious.

“How old were you when this happened?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out my entire life.”

“Have you ever had surgery on that arm?”

“No.”

“Any medical records from your childhood?”

“Only the foster-care records. Most of them are incomplete.”

Dr. Bennett looked at Reed.

“May I speak with you privately?”

“No.”

“Reed—”

“She stays.”

The doctor hesitated.

Then he nodded.

“All right. There is something I should tell you.”

He took a small flashlight from his bag and examined the scar again.

“This looks consistent with an old thermal injury. But there is something unusual.”

Maisie swallowed.

“What?”

“The shape of the scar suggests it may have been treated shortly after the injury. There may be older medical records that identify the circumstances.”

Reed leaned forward.

“Can you find them?”

“I can try. But I need her permission.”

Maisie looked down at her arm.

For twenty-one years, she had carried that scar without knowing where it came from.

Now a stranger was telling her it might be the only clue to her past.

“Find them,” she whispered.

At 4:15 a.m., Pierce entered the room with a laptop.

“Boss. We have a problem.”

Reed’s expression hardened.

“Make it quick.”

“The southern partners have withdrawn their offer. They’re demanding forty million dollars by noon.”

“Then tell them no.”

“They’re threatening to release the shipment records.”

Silence.

Maisie looked up.

She didn’t understand the details, but she understood the tension.

Pierce continued.

“There’s more. Someone leaked footage from tonight.”

He turned the laptop around.

The video showed Reed sitting on the floor, Maisie’s head resting against his arm.

The camera angle was distant, but her face was visible.

Beneath the footage was a message:

WE FOUND THE GIRL.

Reed’s face went completely still.

Pierce lowered his voice.

“Whoever sent it knows who she is.”

Maisie felt her stomach тιԍнтen.

“Who am I?”

Nobody answered.

Reed stood slowly.

His injured hand trembled, but his voice did not.

“Lock down the building. No staff leaves without security clearance. No phones leave this room.”

Then he turned toward Maisie.

“Stay beside me.”

She shook her head.

“Absolutely not. You don’t get to give me orders because I cleaned your wounds.”

Pierce looked horrified.

Reed, however, almost smiled.

“You’re right.”

He paused.

“But someone has spent twenty-one years looking for you. And tonight, they finally found you.”

Maisie’s face went pale.

“Who?”

Before Reed could answer, his phone rang.

The caller ID showed a number he hadn’t seen in years.

MARGARET ASHFORD — PRIVATE ESTATE

His grandmother.

The woman who had raised him after his mother died.

Reed answered.

“Grandmother?”

A fragile voice came through the speaker.

“Reed, darling. Is the girl with you?”

He froze.

“How do you know?”

A long silence followed.

Then Margaret whispered:

“Because I was the one who gave her away.”

Maisie took one step backward.

“Give me the phone.”

Reed handed it to her.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

Margaret’s voice trembled.

“My name is Margaret Ashford. Your mother was my daughter.”

Maisie’s lips parted.

“No. My mother died when I was little.”

“That’s what they told you.”

“Who told me?”

Margaret began to cry.

“Your father was Reed’s uncle, Thomas Ashford. He died the night you disappeared. Your mother survived, but she was never the same afterward.”

Reed stared at the phone.

“Grandmother, you told me my uncle had no children.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“Because someone inside this family wanted that child ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. I thought hiding her was the only way to keep her alive.”

Maisie’s knees weakened.

Reed caught her before she fell.

“Where was she taken?” he demanded.

Margaret hesitated.

“To a foster home. Under another name. I arranged it myself.”

Maisie gripped Reed’s sleeve.

“Why didn’t you come looking for me?”

The old woman sobbed.

“I did. Every year. But the people who took you made sure I could never find you.”

Reed’s eyes darkened.

“Who?”

Margaret’s answer came so quietly that everyone in the room leaned closer.

“Your father, Reed.”

The room fell silent.

Reed’s father had been ᴅᴇᴀᴅ for twelve years.

But Margaret continued.

“He didn’t die before you disappeared. He was the one who ordered it.”

And suddenly Reed understood why his mother had made him promise to find the little girl.

She hadn’t been asking him to find a stranger.

She had been asking him to find his own family.