The maid who had served him coffee every morning for 3 years was carrying a weapon in his own home.
“The safe’s clean,” a 3rd voice called from across the room.
“Nothing but cash and some jewelry.”
Marcus laughed, a sound that held no warmth.
“He keeps the real secrets somewhere else.
We need him alive long enough to tell us where.”
Vincent’s hands clenched into fists.
The empire he had built, the legacy he had protected, was being dissected by his own blood.
But the deeper horror was realizing how long this had been planned.
How many conversations had Marcus overheard?
How many family dinners had been reconnaissance missions?
Elena pressed her lips close to his ear.
