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The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was darker, heavier, pressed down with the kind of deliberate malice that only a fountain pen could deliver. I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. / Chapter 13 / 20

Chapter 13 - The Final Stand of the Traitors

Dante stood near the mahogany desk in the center of the vault, his tailored suit rumpled, sweat pouring down his face, a pistol gripped tightly in his trembling hand. Beside him stood Elena, her emerald silk dress stained with soot, her diamond earrings catching the flickering emergency lights.

Elena’s eyes locked onto Roman with pure venom. “You should have died in that hallway, Roman. You’re a relic. You belong to the past.”

“And you belong in a cell, Elena—or a shallow grave,” Roman replied, stepping across the threshold with absolute authority, his Glock leveled steadily at his brother's chest. “Lower the weapon, Dante. It’s over.”

Dante’s eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for an escape route that didn't exist. “We’re blood, Roman! You can't kill your own flesh and blood!”

“You stopped being my brother the moment you altered my medical schedule and tried to choke me out on a hallway floor,” Roman said coldly. His finger tightened imperceptibly on the trigger.

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The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled from a sunken ship. Across the line, Marcus let out a breath that sounded like a low whistle escaping a pressure valve. Nineteen years of rust, nineteen years of school plays, quiet dinners, and ledger sheets—all of it dissolved in the space of a single heartbeat.

The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled...

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me three agonizing seconds to place the face behind the silver-trimmed beard. Arthur Vance. The reclusive billionaire shipping tycoon, corporate sniper, and my father’s oldest, most estranged rival.

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me...

The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the distant murmur of the jazz trio outside, playing as if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis. Grant stared at the single sheet of thick parchment resting against the cold Italian marble. His breath caught, a shallow, ragged hitch that gave away his panic before his voice ever could.

The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the distant murmur of the jazz t...

Desperate and cornered, Dante suddenly swung his pistol away from Roman and pointed it directly at the doorway—straight at Amara, who was standing behind me in the corridor.

“If I’m going down, I’m taking the little rat who ruined everything!” Dante screamed.

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