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Gabriel’s knee touched the cold marble floor of St. Augustine’s Cathedral. The distance between him and the white casket felt like a canyon of fractured glass. / Chapter 5 / 10

Chapter 5 - The Catacombs of St. AugustineThe iron door was locked, but Gabriel didn’t hesitate. He raised the Sig Sauer and emptied three rounds directly into the heavy brass locking mechanism. With a powerful kick of his boot, the door flew open, sending rust flakes raining down into his face.

He stepped into a massive underground crypt, dimly illuminated by flickering emergency backup lights. Rows of ancient stone tombs lined the walls—centuries-old resting places for Chicago’s earliest archbishops and elite founders.

And right in the center of the room stood Cole and Vivian, gasping for breath beside an open freight elevator shaft that led down into the city’s old storm drainage and subway tunnel network.

“End of the line, Gabe,” Cole wheezed, his gun shaking in his hand as he aimed it at the doorway. His clothes were torn, and blood from his split jaw covered half his neck.

“You’re cornered, Cole,” Gabriel said steadily, stepping into the dim light of the crypt with the pistol held straight and true at his side. “The feds are surrounding the building above. The tunnel system is flooded. You have nowhere left to go.”

“We have the trump card, brother,” Vivian sneered, stepping behind Cole and pulling a small, encrypted remote control from her coat pocket. “You think we were stupid enough to leave Caroline in a random warehouse? Think again.”

Vivian pressed a flashing red button on the remote.

Far beneath their feet, a muffled, deep-bass vibration shook the foundations of the crypt. Dust rained from the vaulted brick ceiling, and a distant, electronic alarm began to wail through the subterranean pipes.

“A dead-man’s switch,” Cole grinned bloodily. “If our heartbeat monitors drop, or if we don’t check in with the primary compound every hour, a C4 charge goes off in the basement of the 4th Street bakery. Caroline goes up in smoke. Permanently.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. For the first time, a muscle twitched in his jaw. “You wouldn’t kill your own blood, Vivian.”

“I killed my conscience the day father gave you the crown instead of me!” Vivian screamed, her face contorted with pure, unadulterated hatred. “And now, you’re going to drop your gun, sign over the entire Whitaker estate to the Outfit, and walk away into the dark. Do it now, or your precious wife becomes ash!”

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He Moved His Mistress Into the Beach House I Bought His Parents—So I Sold It and Cut Off His Cards The woman who opened the door to my beach house was barefoot, freshly showered, and wearing my husband’s favorite college T-shirt. Three seconds later, I saw his shoes by the sofa, his overnight charger plugged into the wall, and two half-finished glasses of wine on the coffee table. By the time Evan came out of the bedroom and asked, “How did you know I was here?” I understood that the affair was only the first thing he had been hiding from me. The ocean was loud that afternoon. Not violent, not stormy, just constant—the heavy Atlantic rhythm that had once made me fall in love with the North Carolina coast. Wind moved through the sea oats beyond the porch, carrying salt and the damp smell of sand through the open screen door. I had driven from Wilmington after finishing a bookstore event three hours earlier than expected. The plan had been simple. Surprise Diane and Frank with lunch. My in-laws had lived in the house for six months, ever since I bought it as the retirement place they had talked about for years. Frank’s cardiac procedure had frightened everyone, and Diane had begun saying they were tired of winters inland, tired of stairs, tired of being so far from the ocean. I could afford the house. That mattered. I was a commercial novelist, and after fifteen years of inconsistent beginnings, my backlist had finally become predictable enough to create the strange kind of financial stability writers rarely admitted existed. Royalties came from older books, foreign editions, television options that mostly went nowhere, audiobook licensing, and one series that kept selling long after I expected readers to forget it. The down payment came from an investment account I opened before I met Evan, combined with proceeds from intellectual property I had created before our marriage. The deed was in my name. At the time, that had not felt like strategy. It felt like paperwork. I loved Evan. I loved his parents. When I gave Diane the keys, she cried. “This is too much,” she said. I hugged her. “Then enjoy too much.” Frank stood behind her with tears in his eyes and said, “We’ll take care of it like it’s ours.” I thought that was gratitude. Six months later, another woman opened the door. She wore Evan’s faded black concert shirt, the one with the cracked white logo of an alternative band he had loved in college. Two years into our marriage, I once tried to place the shirt in a donation box. Evan took it from my hands so quickly I laughed. “No.” “It has holes.” “It survived college.” “So did you.” “Exactly. It’s family.” He folded it himself. Later, when Diane stored a box of Evan’s old belongings, the shirt apparently went with it. Now it fell nearly to a strange woman’s knees. She had damp brown hair and pale bare feet. “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?” For several seconds, I didn’t answer. I looked past her. A light cardigan hung over the sofa. Two wineglasses sat beside takeout containers. Pink slippers rested beside gray sneakers I knew immediately. Evan’s. Beside the shoes was his black travel charger with blue tape around the cord. I had packed that charger for him before his supposed sales conference in Atlanta. On the console near the stairs sat his leather toiletry bag. Ordinary details. That was what made them devastating. Nothing looked rushed. No one had been caught in the middle of some spontaneous mistake. Continued in the first c0mment

He Moved His Mistress Into the Beach House I Bought His Parents—So I Sol...

The dark walnut paneling of Valance absorbed the ambient amber light, making the private dining room feel like a velvet trap. Sabrina shifted slightly beside Nathan, her fingers grazing the base of her crystal water glass. She had spent two hours curling her hair and selecting a dress that whispered corporate elegance, convinced tonight was the night she cemented her place not just in Nathan’s office, but in his life.

The dark walnut paneling of Valance absorbed the ambient amber light, ma...

The amber light of the Fairmont ballroom caught the subtle glimmer of the diamonds against Madison's neck—my diamonds. From my vantage point on the mezzanine, looking down through the polished brass railing, I could see the exact way Ethan placed his hand at the small of her back. It was the same possessive, practiced grip he used to use on me during our early years, before the long hours, the late-night "investor calls," and the quiet erosion of our marriage.

The amber light of the Fairmont ballroom caught the subtle glimmer of th...

Cole cocked the hammer of his gun, stepping forward to press the barrel right between Gabriel’s eyes. “Drop it, boss. Let’s see how tough you are without your empire.”

Gabriel stared down the barrel of the gun. He didn’t blink. He didn’t tremble. Instead, a slow, terrifying smile spread across his lips.

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