Chapter 8 - THE RECKONING OF BLOOD AND INKRonan didn't flinch. He raised his pistol, aiming squarely between Victor's eyes. "You should have stayed in prison, Victor. Grayhaven has no room for ghosts."
"Ghosts?" Victor sneered, stepping closer, his men spreading out to flank the room. "I built this empire with my father before your branch stole it! And now, with the master keys in that box, everything returns to me. Tell the girl to hand over the drive, Ronan, and maybe I'll let you bleed out quickly."
Ivy stepped out from behind the marble hearth. She didn't cower. She stood at full height, her presence dominating the room just as completely as Ronan’s.
"There is no drive, Victor," Ivy said, her voice cutting through the smoke like a razor.
Victor’s smile faltered. He looked at her, then back at the open wall safe. "What are you talking about?"
"Your grandfather didn't store the syndicate's core assets on a digital server where hackers could scrape them," Ivy explained, stepping closer to the edge of the Persian rug. "He stored the structural ownership deeds, the offshore accounts, and the judicial leverage right here..." She tapped her temple with two fingers. "...in my head. And in these ledgers."
Victor’s face twisted into a mask of pure rage. He raised his rifle, swinging the barrel toward Ivy. "Then I'll just cut it out of her!"
He never got the chance.
With blinding speed, Ronan fired twice. The first bullet shattered Victor's rifle barrel; the second grazed Victor's shoulder, spinning him around against a mahogany bookshelf.
At the same time, Ivy didn't hesitate. She grabbed a heavy brass floor-lamp and swung it with all her might, smashing it across the knee of the nearest operative, dropping him instantly to the floor.
The library erupted into absolute chaos. Gunfire flashed in the dim red emergency light, books flew off shelves as bullets tore through pages, and shadows clashed violently across the Persian carpet.
Ronan moved like a predator unleashed, taking down the remaining gunmen with cold, precise efficiency, while Ivy calmly ducked behind a reinforced oak pillar, her eyes locked on Victor, who was scrambling toward the open safe to grab the physical ledgers.
"You bitch!" Victor roared, lunging toward Ivy with a tactical combat knife drawn.
Before Victor could take two steps, a heavy shadow dropped from the iron balcony above.
Malcolm Reeves—holding a solid oak rolling ladder bar—landed squarely on Victor's back, bringing the scarred criminal crashing down onto the marble hearth with a bone-crunching thud.
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Victor groaned, spitting blood onto the rug, his knife clattering away across the floor.
Malcolm stood over him, breathing heavily, his white hair disheveled, but his posture as rigid as a statue. "For forty-three years, Victor, I have served the Blackwood family," Malcolm said coldly. "And I have never seen a more pathetic excuse for a wolf."
