“That is my father, Arthur,” I said softly. “He died when I was eighteen.”

“I know,” Vincent said.

He leaned back, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made me hold my breath.

“Your father was my mentor, Clara.”

I stared at him, my mind struggling to process the words.

“My father was an accountant,” I said. “He worked for an import company.”

Vincent let out a short, humorless laugh.

“He was the chief financial strategist for my family’s entire operation,” Vincent corrected.

“And he was the wisest man I ever knew.”

Vincent leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.

“Fifteen years ago, during a turf dispute, I walked into an ambush at the northern docks.”

“I was young, stupid, and trapped behind a stack of shipping crates.”

“Arthur was there. He wasn’t a soldier, but he had a gun.”

Vincent paused, his gaze drifting to the fire for a brief second.

“He drew their fire away from me. He took a bullet in the shoulder that was meant for my head.”

My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest.