Arthur did not look like a man who had been running for his life.

His silver hair was perfectly neat, untouched by the autumn wind outside.

He closed the heavy wooden door behind him, the latch clicking into place with a sound like a pistol cocking.

Elias stood beside him, his face completely blank.

The young security guard I had trusted looked straight ahead, avoiding my eyes.

“You look beautiful, Lena,” my father said.

His voice was just as I remembered it—smooth, dry, and entirely devoid of warmth.

I gripped the edge of the viewing table, my knuckles turning white against the dark mahogany.

“You’re alive,” I whispered.

“Of course I am,” he said, stepping further into the small room.

The smell of damp wool and expensive cologne drifted from his overcoat.

“Did you really think I would let those street thugs in South Side finish me?” he asked.

“Roman thinks you are dead,” I said. “The whole city thinks you are dead.”

Arthur offered a thin, humorless smile.

“That was the entire point, my dear,” he said.