flash
The silence in the study stretched thin, broken only by the crack of a burning log in the massive stone fireplace behind Vincent Bellandi. Anna Hastings stared at the man sitting in the black metal wheelchair, trying to reconcile the cold, calculating syndicate boss with the broken physical form before her. / Chapter 3 / 10

Chapter 3 - The Rain of LeadThe first gunshot shattered the chandelier above Anna Hastings, but it was the hand around her waist that stole the scream from her throat.

Vincent Bellandi dragged her backward so hard that she landed across his lap. Crystal fragments rained over them, champagne glasses exploded against marble columns, and hundreds of elegantly dressed guests stampeded toward locked exits—wait, no, there were no guests tonight. This was a private assault on the inner sanctum. The panic was raw, primal, and immediate.

Anna twisted in his arms, desperate to rise.

“Let me go,” she gasped. “They’re coming through that door.”

Another burst of gunfire cracked through the darkness as the library double doors blew inward in a shower of splinters and lead.

Vincent tightened his grip, his muscles cording beneath his shirt.

“I know.”

“You can’t move fast enough. Let me stand in front of you.”

His gray eyes found hers through the smoke and haze of indoor gunfire. There was no helplessness in them. There was only pure, unadulterated fury.

“I’m still a man, Anna,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear it over the roar of assault rifles. “Do you think I’m incapable?”

Before she could reply, Vincent wheeled his chair backward with blistering speed, using the heavy mahogany desk as cover. With his left hand, he held Anna securely behind him; with his right, he raised the submachine gun and fired a controlled, three-round burst through the smoke.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

A muffled cry echoed from the doorway as one of Salvatore’s hitmen dropped heavily to the marble floor, his weapon clattering away.

"Leo!" Vincent roared over the gunfire. "Flank them through the service corridor!"

"On it, Boss!" Leo shouted back from the shadows of the hallway, returning fire with deafening blasts from a shotgun.

Anna pressed her back against Vincent’s broad chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat. The fear that had paralyzed her moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp survival instinct. She raised the hunting rifle, squinted through the acrid gunpowder smoke, and saw a shadow creeping along the balcony above.

Bang.

The heavy rifle kicked against her shoulder, the recoil bruising bone, but the man on the balcony dropped his weapon and crashed over the iron railing, hitting the floor below with a sickening thud.

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He Moved His Mistress Into the Beach House I Bought His Parents—So I Sold It and Cut Off His Cards The woman who opened the door to my beach house was barefoot, freshly showered, and wearing my husband’s favorite college T-shirt. Three seconds later, I saw his shoes by the sofa, his overnight charger plugged into the wall, and two half-finished glasses of wine on the coffee table. By the time Evan came out of the bedroom and asked, “How did you know I was here?” I understood that the affair was only the first thing he had been hiding from me. The ocean was loud that afternoon. Not violent, not stormy, just constant—the heavy Atlantic rhythm that had once made me fall in love with the North Carolina coast. Wind moved through the sea oats beyond the porch, carrying salt and the damp smell of sand through the open screen door. I had driven from Wilmington after finishing a bookstore event three hours earlier than expected. The plan had been simple. Surprise Diane and Frank with lunch. My in-laws had lived in the house for six months, ever since I bought it as the retirement place they had talked about for years. Frank’s cardiac procedure had frightened everyone, and Diane had begun saying they were tired of winters inland, tired of stairs, tired of being so far from the ocean. I could afford the house. That mattered. I was a commercial novelist, and after fifteen years of inconsistent beginnings, my backlist had finally become predictable enough to create the strange kind of financial stability writers rarely admitted existed. Royalties came from older books, foreign editions, television options that mostly went nowhere, audiobook licensing, and one series that kept selling long after I expected readers to forget it. The down payment came from an investment account I opened before I met Evan, combined with proceeds from intellectual property I had created before our marriage. The deed was in my name. At the time, that had not felt like strategy. It felt like paperwork. I loved Evan. I loved his parents. When I gave Diane the keys, she cried. “This is too much,” she said. I hugged her. “Then enjoy too much.” Frank stood behind her with tears in his eyes and said, “We’ll take care of it like it’s ours.” I thought that was gratitude. Six months later, another woman opened the door. She wore Evan’s faded black concert shirt, the one with the cracked white logo of an alternative band he had loved in college. Two years into our marriage, I once tried to place the shirt in a donation box. Evan took it from my hands so quickly I laughed. “No.” “It has holes.” “It survived college.” “So did you.” “Exactly. It’s family.” He folded it himself. Later, when Diane stored a box of Evan’s old belongings, the shirt apparently went with it. Now it fell nearly to a strange woman’s knees. She had damp brown hair and pale bare feet. “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?” For several seconds, I didn’t answer. I looked past her. A light cardigan hung over the sofa. Two wineglasses sat beside takeout containers. Pink slippers rested beside gray sneakers I knew immediately. Evan’s. Beside the shoes was his black travel charger with blue tape around the cord. I had packed that charger for him before his supposed sales conference in Atlanta. On the console near the stairs sat his leather toiletry bag. Ordinary details. That was what made them devastating. Nothing looked rushed. No one had been caught in the middle of some spontaneous mistake. Continued in the first c0mment

He Moved His Mistress Into the Beach House I Bought His Parents—So I Sol...

The dark walnut paneling of Valance absorbed the ambient amber light, making the private dining room feel like a velvet trap. Sabrina shifted slightly beside Nathan, her fingers grazing the base of her crystal water glass. She had spent two hours curling her hair and selecting a dress that whispered corporate elegance, convinced tonight was the night she cemented her place not just in Nathan’s office, but in his life.

The dark walnut paneling of Valance absorbed the ambient amber light, ma...

The amber light of the Fairmont ballroom caught the subtle glimmer of the diamonds against Madison's neck—my diamonds. From my vantage point on the mezzanine, looking down through the polished brass railing, I could see the exact way Ethan placed his hand at the small of her back. It was the same possessive, practiced grip he used to use on me during our early years, before the long hours, the late-night "investor calls," and the quiet erosion of our marriage.

The amber light of the Fairmont ballroom caught the subtle glimmer of th...

Vincent looked down at her, a dark, approving smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "Remind me never to piss you off, Mrs. Bellandi."

"Save your breath," Anna panted, reloading the rifle with practiced precision she didn't know she possessed. "They're coming through the windows."

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