flash
Michael’s words hung in the sterile air of the hallway, heavy as wet lead. A sedative. In an estate guarded like a nuclear silo, someone had slipped a chemical compound into the bloodstream of a quiet, unassuming housemaid, and my security network had treated it like a ghost walking through walls. / Chapter 14 / 20

Chapter 14 - Into the Lion’s DenThe night sky over the Chicago waterfront was pitch black, choked by a low-hanging autumn fog rolling in off Lake Michigan. I moved through the overgrown perimeter brush like a predator, my boots silent against the damp earth, keeping low beneath the shadow of the iron security fence.

The estate’s emergency lighting cast long, skeletal shadows across the sprawling lawns. As I neared the old carriage house near the northern edge of the property, a faint amber glow flickered through the frosted glass windows.

Someone was inside.

I crept up to the side door, my heart hammering a steady, rhythmic beat against my ribs. I pressed my back against the damp brick wall, slid my hand down to check the safety on my sidearm, and reached slowly for the iron handle.

Click.

The door swung inward with barely a whisper. I slipped through the threshold into the dark, cavernous space filled with old vintage cars and tarp-covered crates.

“I knew you’d come sniffing around the old garage, Moretti,” a voice echoed smoothly from the shadows near the back workbench.

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

Victor Kane stepped out from behind a restored 1968 Shelby GT500. His tailored suit was slightly rumpled, a thin strip of white medical tape crossing his left cheek where Sarah’s bullet had grazed him, but his slate-grey eyes burned with absolute, unyielding malice.

He wasn't running. He was waiting for me.

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