Read the next chapter and discover what awaits the characters.

-7-

The heavy mahogany doors of the north wing library pushed open with a soft creak that was instantly swallowed by the howling wind outside.

Julian DeMarco spun around, his face slick with sweat, clutching a heavy revolver in his trembling right hand. Beside him, Vivian let out a shrill scream, dropping her leather briefcase as she saw Vincent and me standing in the doorway.

“Stay back!” Julian shrieked, pointing the barrel of the revolver erratically between Vincent’s chest and mine. “I swear to God, I’ll put a bullet through both of you! The chopper is five minutes away! We’re leaving this country, and you can’t stop us!”

Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't even raise his weapon immediately. He walked slowly into the vast, book-lined library, his heavy boots clicking against the Persian rug with unhurried authority.

“You aren't going anywhere, Julian,” Vincent said calmly. “The airspace over this county was locked down by federal aviation control ten minutes ago. Your pilot isn't coming.”

“Lies!” Julian screamed, his voice cracking with rising hysteria. He looked desperately toward his daughter. “Vivian, help me! Tell him!”

Vivian backed away until her spine hit the heavy glass French doors leading to the roof balcony. Her face was twisted in an ugly mask of hatred and humiliation as she glared directly at me, her eyes bloodshot and wild.

“It’s her fault,” Vivian hissed, pointing a shaking, manicured finger straight at my face. “It’s all because of this fat, pathetic trashy maid! She ruined everything! Our wedding, our family name, our future! Daddy, kill her! Shoot her right now!”

I didn't flinch. I slowly stepped out from behind Vincent, letting the heavy black wool coat swing open, revealing the silver locket resting proudly against my chest.

“I’m not a maid, Vivian,” I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the howling wind. “And I’m certainly not trash. I am the granddaughter of the man your family murdered to steal this estate.”

Vivian sneered, her composure completely gone. “You think a cheap silver locket makes you an aristocrat? You’re nothing! You spent all night scrubbing my floors, and that’s all you’ll ever be!”

“Vivian, shut up!” Julian barked, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold the weight of the revolver. He looked at Vincent, his eyes wide with desperate pleading. “Moretti... please. Let us walk. I have three hundred million hidden in Swiss accounts. I’ll sign it over to you. All of it. Just let us get on that roof.”

Vincent stopped three feet away from Julian. He looked down at the revolver in the older man’s hand with absolute contempt.

“Three hundred million dollars stolen from the families your syndicate executed twenty-five years ago,” Vincent said coldly. “You think money buys absolution, Julian?”

Before Julian could pull the trigger, Vincent moved with blinding, predatory speed. He stepped inside the arc of the revolver, grabbing Julian’s wrist with one hand and twisting it upward with bone-crushing force.

Crack!

Julian let out a piercing shriek of agony as the revolver slipped from his numbed fingers and clattered onto the Persian rug. With a second swift motion, Vincent slammed Julian face-first against the heavy mahogany bookshelf, pinning him securely in place.

Vivian screamed, lunging forward to claw at Vincent’s face, but before she could take two steps, I intercepted her.

I grabbed Vivian by the shoulders and shoved her hard backward against the glass French doors. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs, leaving her gasping for air as I pinned her against the glass, mirroring the exact position she had forced me into hours earlier during the engagement party.