Footsteps approached the closet.
Elena pressed Vincent deeper into the shadows, her body shielding him as expensive fabric rustled around them.
Then a voice cut through the silence.
Cold.
Familiar.
“Check every room again.
He should have been here by now.”
Vincent’s blood turned to ice.
That voice belonged to his nephew, Marcus.
The boy Vincent had raised after his brother’s death.
The young man he had groomed to inherit pieces of his empire.
The family member he had trusted with his life.
Elena’s eyes reflected the same shock Vincent felt.
She had recognized the voice, too.
But her expression shifted from surprise to something else.
Knowledge.
As if this betrayal was not news to her.
Another voice joined Marcus in the bedroom.
“Maybe he changed his plans.
The old man’s getting paranoid in his age.”
“No,” Marcus replied, his tone sharp with the authority Vincent had taught him.
“He’s coming.
Tony confirmed he left the warehouse an hour ago.
Vincent never deviates from his routine.”
Through the crack, Vincent saw Marcus’s silhouette move to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains to peer into the night.
The same window where Vincent had stood countless times, surveying his domain, believing it was impenetrable.
Elena shifted slightly, and Vincent noticed something that made his pulse quicken.
She was armed.
A small pistol pressed against her hip, concealed beneath her simple black dress.
