The searing, white-hot agony radiating from my shoulder was a universe unto itself. Liquid heat continued to cook the flesh of my back, fusing the fine Mulberry silk of my blouse directly to my nerve endings. The kitchen, with its polished Calacatta marble counters, custom walnut cabinetry, and gold-plated fixtures, smelled not of roasting rosemary or artisanal bread, but of charred human skin. My skin.

Seventy-two hours later.

The private estate of Henri Laurent was an isolated, ultra-modern fortress carved into the cliffside of Newport, Rhode Island. Overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean, the estate was protected by high-voltage fences, thermal motion sensors, and a dozen former French Foreign Legion mercenaries carrying suppressed automatic weapons.

Inside the glass-walled subterranean dining room, Henri Laurent sat at the head of a mahogany table. He was a man in his late fifties, with sharp gray hair, a tailored Italian suit, and a thin, jagged scar running down his left jawline.

He was currently dining on pan-seared turbot when his head of security entered the room, looking pale.

"Monsieur Laurent," the guard whispered nervously. "We have a situation at the main gate."

Laurent didn't pause his fork. "Did the local authorities show up? I thought Commissioner Vance’s replacement was paid off."

"It’s not the police, sir," the guard stammered. "It’s... a single Maybach. It just drove straight through the security checkpoint. The occupants claim they have an appointment."

Laurent paused, setting his fork down on the porcelain plate. "Who is in the vehicle?"

The heavy, soundproof oak doors of the dining room were pushed open before the guard could answer.

Stepping into the room, surrounded by four of Laurent’s armed mercenaries who had their weapons drawn but hesitated to fire, was me.

I wore a floor-length, deep obsidian velvet gown. My hair was pulled back into a sharp braid, and across my shoulder, the 24-karat gold-leafed scar tissue gleamed brightly under the recessed halogen lights of the room.

Walking behind me was Julian Thorne, carrying a single, heavy metallic briefcase.

"Monsieur Laurent," I said smoothly, speaking fluent, unaccented French. "Forgive the unannounced intrusion. But I believe you’ve been looking for the keys to Sterling Freight."

Laurent stared at me for three long seconds. Slowly, a dry, cold chuckle escaped his lips. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and stood up.

"Claire Sterling," Laurent said in English, his voice like gravel. "You have considerable courage coming into my home. Or perhaps just profound ignorance. Do you realize that with one snap of my fingers, my men will dump your bodies off the cliff into the Atlantic, and no one will ever find a single bone?"

"You could do that," I said, taking a seat uninvited at the opposite end of his long dining table. "But if I die, or if my heart rate monitor drops below sixty beats per minute, an automated instruction will be sent to the United States Department of Transportation."

I leaned forward, placing my hands flat on the mahogany table.

"Within four seconds of my death, Sterling Freight’s exclusive customs-clearing licenses will be permanently revoked. The shipping lanes you spent twelve years and $200 million bribing corrupt politicians to secure will be completely shut down forever."

Laurent’s eyes narrowed into slits. The arrogance in his posture stiffened.

"What do you want, little girl?" Laurent growled low.

"I want to make a deal," I said.

Julian set the metallic briefcase onto the table and popped the latches. He swung the lid open, revealing a glowing, military-grade encrypted server interface.

"Inside this server," I explained, "are the master private encryption keys to the entire $600 million dark-money clearing network Daniel Vance set up across North America. It contains the names, bank accounts, and illegal transaction logs of every corrupt politician, judge, and law enforcement officer La Main Rouge has bought in this country over the last decade."

Laurent took a step toward the table, his eyes locked onto the glowing interface. "You’re offering to sell me my own network back?"

"I’m not selling it to you," I corrected, a cold, sharp smile spreading across my face. "I’m giving it to you. On one condition."

"And what is that condition?" Laurent asked suspiciously.

"You execute a full financial and legal liquidation of the Vance-Sterling family holdings in Europe," I said, my voice dropping to a icy register. "I want Eleanor and Daniel stripped of every off-shore trust, every secret account, every piece of foreign real estate they spent forty years accumulating. I want them penniless. Not just bankrupt—I want them in debt to you."

Laurent stared at me, astonished. Then, he let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the glass walls.

"You came into my fortress, threatened my empire, and your only demand is the absolute financial annihilation of your former husband’s bloodline?" Laurent asked, shaking his head in utter disbelief. "You are far more ruthless than that sniveling idiot Daniel ever was."

"Daniel was a parasite who hid behind his mother’s apron and hot canola oil," I said, my voice hard as diamond. "I am the woman who survived them both. Do we have a deal, Monsieur Laurent?"