Chapter 2 - Smoke and ShardsScreams ricocheted off the vaulted ceilings. Crystal flutes shattered on the floor as hundreds of America's richest people scrambled like rats, diving beneath tables and trampling one another for the exits.
“Stay behind me!” Evelyn shouted over the deafening alarm bells. She pulled me hard against her hip, using her own body as a shield.
Through the swirling smoke of a smoke grenade that had been hurled through the window, three figures emerged. They wore tactical black gear, their faces hidden behind matte-black ballistic masks. The leader stepped forward, a heavy-caliber suppressor fitted to the end of his assault rifle.
“Evelyn Whitmore,” the leader’s voice was distorted, metallic, and chillingly calm through his mask. “You really should teach your security team how to lock a perimeter. But then again… old age makes people sloppy.”
Arthur lunged forward, trying to block their path, but the lead operative simply raised the butt of his rifle and brought it crashing down across Arthur’s temple. The older man dropped like a stone, blood pooling on the pristine white marble.
“Arthur!” Evelyn cried out.
The masked man scanned the ballroom, his rifle sweeping past terrified billionaires until his visor locked directly onto me.
“There she is,” the operative muttered, stepping over Arthur’s unconscious body. “The little rat who crawled out of the drain. Boss wants the necklace, and he wants the girl. Clean slate. No loose ends.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I grabbed fistfuls of Evelyn’s expensive silk dress, burying my face in her waist.
“You take another step toward my granddaughter,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping an octave, completely devoid of fear, “and I will ensure every offshore account, shell company, and hidden asset Victor owns is broadcast to the Department of Justice before the clock strikes midnight.”
The masked leader paused. His rifle wavered for a fraction of a second. “The old man is dead, Evelyn. Vance Corporation owns everything now. You have nothing left.”
“Do I?” Evelyn smiled—a terrifying, razor-sharp smile that made the mercenary step back. With her free hand, she reached into her clutch, pulled out a heavy, vintage gold key, and pressed it into my small, freezing palm.
“Take this, Lily,” she whispered fiercely into my ear. “Run through the service elevator behind the dais. Go straight down to the wine cellar. Look for the third wine rack on the left. Push the bottle of 1945 Château Lafite.”
“I’m not leaving you!” I sobbed.
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“You aren't leaving, you’re surviving,” Evelyn commanded, her eyes blazing with the fire of a dynasty built on blood and steel. “Go! Now!”
With a swift shove, she pushed me toward the heavy velvet curtains behind the stage just as the mercenary raised his rifle to fire.
