Chapter 8 - TRAPPED IN THE MARBLE FOYERDownstairs, the heavy crystal chandelier cast cold, glittering reflections across the silent marble foyer.
Victor Vance poured himself a glass of neat bourbon from the mahogany bar cart in the study, swirling the amber liquid with a smug, relaxed grin. Margaret Hargrove stood by the window, nervously tapping her pearl brooch with a manicured nail.
"You should have dealt with the new girl days ago, Margaret," Victor chided, taking a slow sip. "If Dominic finds that safety deposit box in the basement archives—"
"He won't find it," Margaret snapped, her voice sharp with defensive panic. "The digital override codes are secure, and the physical archives require a dual biometric key. Dominic doesn't have my thumbprint."
"Are you sure about that, Margaret?"
A cold, rich voice echoed from the grand staircase.
Victor choked on his bourbon, coughing violently as he slammed the glass down. Margaret spun around, her face draining of all color.
Standing at the top of the stairs, bathed in the pale moonlight pouring through the high arched windows, was Dominic Vale.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscular forearms. In his right hand, he casually held a heavy, solid-steel tire iron—the exact tool recovered from the fatal roadside ambush two years ago, now bearing clean fingerprints and forensic tags.
"Dominic..." Margaret stammered, taking an involuntary step back. "What... what are you doing awake? Victor was just—"
"Victor was just explaining how to eliminate a loose end," Dominic finished smoothly, descending the stairs one slow, heavy step at a time. Each footfall echoed through the cavernous hall like the ticking of a death clock. "Isn't that right, Vic? You always did love hostile takeovers. Too bad you forgot that some assets fight back."
Victor’s smug composure shattered completely. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes darting toward the front doors. "You're out of your mind, Vale. You've been listening to a crazy kid and a diner maid. If anything happens to us, federal marshals will be kicking your front doors down by sunrise."
"Let them try," Dominic said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, standing squarely between them and the exit. "Because by sunrise, the federal marshals won't be looking for me. They'll be digging through your offshore accounts, your shell companies, and the police reports you bribed away two years ago."
Margaret panicked. With a desperate shriek, she lunged for the security control panel on the wall, slamming her hand against the master lockdown button to trap Dominic inside the house.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
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Instead of locking down the estate, a loud, jarring error alarm blared through the speakers.
The front gates didn't close—they swung completely wide open, revealing a convoy of unmarked federal cruisers and dark tactical vehicles turning into the driveway with their lights flashing a blinding red and blue against the white stone pillars.
