Chapter 7 - THE TRAP SPRINGSThe dinner progressed like a slow-moving execution.
Throughout the courses of roasted duck and truffle risotto, Marcus Vance played his part with the practiced ease of a seasoned predator. He smiled, made polite small talk about municipal zoning laws, and toasted to the family's continued prosperity. But Alina could see the tiny, involuntary twitch in the muscle of his jaw, and the way his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the stem of his wineglass.
He knew something was wrong. He could smell the trap.
As Julian stepped forward to pour a fresh round of vintage port into the crystal decanters, Vance stood up smoothly, adjusting his cuffs.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," Vance said, offering a tight, polite smile. "An urgent matter regarding the port authority filings. I need to make a secure call from my terminal in the study."
"Take your time, Marcus," Christian said, his voice deceptively casual as he swirled the dark red wine in his glass. "Though I'm afraid you'll find the study somewhat... crowded tonight."
Vance’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Crowded?"
"Indeed," Christian replied, looking up with eyes as cold and empty as a winter night. "Julian locked down the external servers twenty minutes ago. The only terminal currently transmitting data out of this house is the one routing straight to federal prosecutor Arthur Sterling’s private residence."
The color vanished entirely from Vance’s face. The polite, cultured veneer shattered, exposing the frantic, cornered rat beneath.
Without a word of warning, Vance’s hand shot inside his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the grip of a concealed shoulder holster.
He never cleared leather.
With blinding speed, Christian kicked his chair backward, vaulted over the edge of the mahogany table, and slammed into Vance before the man’s weapon could clear his coat. The two men crashed violently against the antique mahogany sideboard, sending crystal decanters, silver platters, and porcelain plates shattering across the hardwood floor in a deafening cascade of noise.
The other board members scrambled backward in sheer panic, knocking their chairs over as they fled toward the grand foyer.
Alina stood frozen, her hands gripping the edge of the table, her breath hitching in her throat as Christian and Vance grappled in the wreckage. Vance was heavy, brutal, and fighting with the desperate strength of a man facing a life sentence. He managed to wrench his arm free, a heavy steel switchblade flashing into view under the golden light of the chandelier.
"Christian!" Alina screamed.
With a savage twist, Christian ducked beneath the arc of the blade, drove his forearm hard into Vance’s throat, and slammed the man’s skull against the oak wainscoting with a sickening thud.
Vance went limp instantly, sliding down the wall and collapsing in a heap amid the shattered glass and spilled port wine.
The dining room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by Christian’s ragged breathing.
Slowly, Christian straightened up. He adjusted his cuffs, brushed a speck of dust from the sleeve of his tuxedo, and looked down at the unconscious man bleeding onto the Persian rug. Not a single hair on his head was out of place.
He turned his dark, intense gaze toward Alina.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice steady.
Alina nodded slowly, her legs trembling slightly beneath the silk gown. "I'm... I'm fine."
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Christian walked around the wreckage, stepped over Vance’s unconscious body, and stopped right in front of her. He reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead, leaving a faint smudge of soot against her skin.
"The house is clean, Alina," he whispered softly. "And the leak is plugged."
