Zeke’s POV
“Five years. And not a single damn trace of her.”
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of my penthouse, whiskey glass in hand, watching the city pulse beneath me. New York glowed, alive with energy, with power. Power I had clawed my way to.
It was mine now.
In a way, everything was mine.
I had built an empire out of nothing, turned my own damn name into something that made men pause before speaking it. Ezekiel Donahue wasn’t a forgotten relic of a burned-down dynasty anymore. No—I had become something more.
But for all the power, all the wealth, all the ways I could bend this city to my will—
I still couldn’t find her.
The girl who had saved me.
The girl who had vanished into the smoke like a ghost, slipping through my fingers before I even knew her name.
Until now.
I turned from the window, setting my whiskey down with a soft clink. My gaze locked onto Jax, my most trusted man.
“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice even, controlled.
Jax nodded once. “Scar on her cheek. Waitress at some rundown diner. Goes by Lena.”
Lena.
I repeated the name in my head, rolling it over like I could taste it, like I could feel it.
Five years.
Five damn years.
And now she was here. Hiding in this city.
My jaw tightened. “Where exactly?”
Jax pulled out a manila folder, dropping it onto my desk. “South Brooklyn. Place called Benny’s Diner.”
I flicked it open.
The first thing I saw was the photograph.
A woman with dark hair, tucked sloppily into a loose bun. Uniform slightly oversized, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
And the scar.
It ran down the side of her face, faint but impossible to miss, stretching from just below her temple to the edge of her jaw.
I stared at it, something sharp twisting in my gut.
I had imagined finding her a thousand times.
Had imagined what I would say. What I would ask.
But now, seeing her here—older, hardened, alive—I didn’t know what the hell I felt.
Anger?
Relief?
Possession?
Probably all three.
Jax cleared his throat. “What do you want me to do?”
I closed the folder, tapping a finger against the cover.
“Find out everything,” I ordered. “Where she lives. Who she talks to. What she does when she’s not slinging coffee at some shithole diner.”
Jax nodded. “And after that?”
I picked up my whiskey again, swirling the amber liquid.
A slow smirk curled at the edges of my lips.
“Then,” I said, taking a sip, “I go see her myself.”