flash
Joseph reached out, his hand trembling as his fingers brushed his mother’s frail, cold wrist. Up close, under the dim accent lights of the sub-zero refrigerator, Evelyn looked like a ghost inhabiting her own skin. Her sunken cheeks and bruised eyelids told a story far different from the reports he received during his board meetings. / Chapter 5 / 8

Chapter 5 - The Trap Springs

Within twenty minutes, heavy footsteps echoed down the grand hallway.

Dr. Victor Vance—formerly Marcus Thorne—entered the study accompanied by two burly men dressed in black tactical fatigues. The deep scar across his left temple was unmistakable under the harsh ambient lighting.

“Is he fully incapacitated?” Marcus asked, pulling a pair of medical latex gloves onto his hands.

“He’s conscious, but paralyzed,” Sloane said, sipping a glass of Scotch she had poured from Joseph’s decanter. “The micro-doses finally hit critical accumulation. Prepare the conservatorship transfer documents. I’ll press his thumb onto the biometric pad.”

Marcus pulled out a thick leather binder containing legal documents that would hand over total control of Calloway Developments, the $3 billion asset portfolio, and all power-of-attorney rights to Sloane Mercer Calloway.

“And the mother?” Marcus asked, leaning over Joseph’s body to check his pupils with a penlight.

“She’s in her room, eating out of the trash like the street rat she is,” Sloane sneered without a shred of remorse. “Once Joseph signs, we’ll inject her with a high-dose insulin shot. The police will think she suffered a diabetic coma due to her unmanaged late-stage dementia. Two birds, one stone.”

Joseph felt a heat roar inside his chest that nearly burst through his act. They were going to murder his mother tonight.

Marcus grabbed Joseph’s right hand, pulling his thumb toward the signature pad of a digital tablet. “Sign away, billionaire,” Marcus chuckled softly.

Suddenly, the lights in the entire 20,000-square-foot estate went pitch black.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“What the hell?” Sloane yelled. “Marcus, is the generator offline?”

“It shouldn’t be,” Marcus snapped, pulling out a flashlight. “The automated system should have kicked in—"

Before he could finish his sentence, the reinforced steel doors of the study slammed shut automatically, locking with a heavy, magnetic THUD.

A sharp red emergency light flashed on near the ceiling, casting blood-red shadows across the room.

From the dark corner of the room, a speaker crackled to life.

“You know, Sloane,” Joseph’s voice rang out clear, powerful, and completely steady over the room’s intercom system—even though he was still lying on the floor.

Except, the man on the floor slowly stood up.

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The morning sunlight sliced through the sheer curtains of my quiet, empty apartment like a razor blade. I had slept like a stone, knowing that miles across the city, an absolute catastrophe was unfolding in high definition. My phone buzzed aggressively against the nightstand—a barrage of frantic missed calls and text messages.

The morning sunlight sliced through the sheer curtains of my quiet, empt...

The rain tapped a frantic rhythm against the glass of Marissa’s cramped, dimly lit kitchen, but the storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest raging inside Adrian Whitmore’s mind. Standing just beyond the rotting wooden doorframe of her apartment, hidden by the heavy shadows of the crumbling stairwell, the millionaire tried to steady his breathing. His expensive wool coat was soaked through, but he didn’t care. His eyes were entirely fixed on the scene unfolding a few feet away.

The rain tapped a frantic rhythm against the glass of Marissa’s cramped,...

My hand froze inches from the cold steel of the Sig Sauer P226. Beneath the amber glow of the bedside lamp, the source of the warmth against my side wasn't an assassin, an operative from a rival syndicate, or a traitorous lieutenant.

My hand froze inches from the cold steel of the Sig Sauer P226. Beneath...

Joseph brushed the dust off his trousers, adjusted his collar, and looked directly into Marcus Thorne’s flashlight beam with eyes as cold as absolute zero.

“You really should have checked the tea brand,” Joseph said calmly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small anti-toxin vial he had taken hours ago after Julian’s warning. “I haven’t drunk your tea in three weeks, Sloane. I’ve been spilling it into the potted orchid in my private office. The orchid died yesterday. But I? I’ve never felt clearer.”

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