Read the next chapter and discover what awaits the characters.

-5-

The digital clock on the vault’s central console flashed 2:14 AM as streams of encrypted financial data cascaded down the monitors. The master purge had been initiated, silently transmitting terabytes of incriminating evidence directly to federal oversight committees, international banking regulators, and independent investigative journalists across the country.

By sunrise, the financial foundations of Julian DeMarco’s real estate empire and Senator Robert Vance’s political career would be reduced to ash.

I sat in a leather armchair beside the mahogany desk, holding a cup of black coffee Vincent had poured for me. My arm still throbbed slightly where Vivian’s riding crop had struck it, but the physical pain felt distant, overshadowed by the roaring current of adrenaline and purpose coursing through my veins.

Vincent stood by the holographic map, watching the red dots representing corrupt shell companies wink out one by one as the automated freeze orders locked their offshore accounts.

“They’ll know it came from the Belladonna sub-vault within the hour,” Vincent said quietly, his eyes reflecting the blue glow of the console. “Julian and his associates aren't going to go down quietly. They have private security forces, corrupt police captains on their payroll, and nothing left to lose.”

“Let them come,” I said, setting my coffee cup down on the desk with a sharp clink. “They had twenty-five years to hide their crimes. We gave them twenty-five minutes to lose them.”

Vincent turned his head, a genuine smile breaking across his stern features—a look of profound respect that made my heart skip an unfamiliar beat. He walked over, pulling a spare black wool coat from the armoire near the door and draped it gently over my shoulders. The fabric was heavy, warm, and smelled faintly of cedar and rain.

“You’ve changed a lot in the last four hours, Elena,” Vincent observed softly, standing close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his frame. “From a maid scrubbing marble floors to the heir of an empire.”

“I didn't change, Vincent,” I replied, looking straight into his dark eyes. “I just stopped hiding.”

Before he could answer, the secure intercom on the desk hissed to life.

Boss, a guard’s voice crackled through the speaker, breathless and tense. We have movement at the perimeter gates. Three unmarked black SUVs just bypassed the street sensors. They’re heavily armed, and they’re not local law enforcement. They’re private contract mercenaries.

Vincent’s expression hardened instantly into stone. He didn't panic; he simply shifted into combat mode.

“Lock down the sub-basement blast doors,” Vincent ordered into the comms unit. “Activate defensive protocols alpha-three. Do not let them cross the courtyard.”

Copy that, Boss.

Vincent reached into his inner jacket and pulled out a sleek, suppressed tactical pistol, checking the magazine before handing it to me. I caught it reflexively, my hands closing firmly around the checkered grip. My father—Marcus Vance’s son, who had lived in hiding before he too was taken—had taught me how to handle a firearm when I was a teenager on a secluded farm in Vermont. I knew how to shoot, and more importantly, I knew how to survive.

“Stay behind me,” Vincent instructed, drawing his own weapon as he moved toward the vault’s exit.

“I’m not staying behind anyone anymore, Vincent,” I said, stepping right beside him, the heavy wool coat sweeping the floor. “This is my family’s war, too.”