The Blue Moon Café was a dimly lit haven, its air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and cinnamon. The jukebox in the corner hummed a scratchy jazz tune, barely audible over the murmur of late-night patrons—tired cabbies, insomniac writers, and the occasional drifter nursing a cheap meal. Lena Hart pushed through the door, her hood still up, her eyes scanning the room for threats. Max followed, the ledger a heavy weight inside his jacket, his expression sour. Riley Kane was ...