The shooter was…Lucas. It was Lucas Lang.The courtroom erupted.“Order! Order!” Judge Sterling hammered her gavel, the wood cracking against the block, but the noise was deafening.Vanessa Lang stood up, her hands clutching her hair, her face a mask of horror. “Lucas? No… that’s impossible! He’s just a boy!”“Your Honor,” Adrian’s voice cut through the noise like a blade, silencing the gallery. “The footage speaks for itself. Lucas Lang, the brother of the petitioner, orchestrated an assassination attempt on school grounds.”He turned his gaze to the table of eight lawyers—the so-called "Sharks of Fifth Avenue." They looked confident a moment ago. Now, they looked like swimmers who had just spotted a dorsal fin.Adrian didn’t sit down. He picked up his manila folder and walked toward them.“But Lucas did not act alone,” Adrian said calmly. “He was enabled by a legal team that specializes in burying the truth. A team that is unfit to practice law.”He stopped in front of the first la

A chill went down Ethan’s spine that was colder than the grave. Margaret was the only other person who knew. She was the architect. She was the one who whispered in his ear that Samuel was weak, that John was senile, that the Cross empire belonged to Ethan.Margaret had been silent lately. She hadn't answered his calls. She wasn't at the trial today.‘Did she sell me out?’ Ethan thought, his paranoia blooming like a poisonous flower. ‘Did she go to Adrian? Did she trade my life for hers?’It was the only way. Adrian was a nobody. A janitor. A cook who saved Helen from a pool once . There was no way he could know about the ravine unless someone on the inside talked.Ethan looked at Adrian, and for a moment, he didn't see a man. He saw a monster. He saw a creature that broke through impossible barriers, that walked through gunfire, that stood up from a deathbed, that turned lawyers into dust.He is taking everything, Ethan realized. He took the debt. He took the girl. He took the compan

Helen pulled back slightly. She wiped her eyes, looking up at him. Her lashes were wet, clumping together, framing eyes that were the color of the ocean after a storm.She studied his face. She looked for the hesitation. She looked for the false bravado she had seen in so many men —the empty promises made to comfort a crying woman.She found none.She saw only absolute, terrifying certainty.A small, sad smile touched her lips.“You promised me,” she whispered.She reached up and touched his cheek, her thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw.“You promised me protection in Fabio’s club, when those bouncers tried to hurt Eva and me. You kept it.”She took a shaky breath.“You promised to pay my family’s debt, even when everyone laughed at you. You kept it.”“You promised Fabio wouldn't marry me. That I had a choice. You kept it.”“You promised you would win the cooking competition. You kept it.”She leaned her forehead against his.“You have promised me so much, Adrian. Impossible thin

The holding cell smelled of bleach and unwashed bodies, a sterile purgatory that had stripped Ethan Cross of his dignity for exactly fourteen hours.He sat on the cold metal bench, his Italian suit wrinkled, the silk tie loosened around his neck like a noose he had forgotten to tighten. He hadn't slept. He had spent the night staring at the concrete wall, replaying the moment in the courtroom where his fist connected with Adrian’s jaw —and the moment the taser wires had sent him convulsing to the floor.Lord Doom. Lord fucking Doom!!The name echoed in his head, mocking him. A chef. A janitor. A lawyer. A ghost.Clank.The heavy steel door buzzed and swung open.A police officer stood there, holding a clipboard. He looked bored, tired, and completely unimpressed by the heir to the Cross empire sitting before him.“Cross,” the officer grunted. “You made bail. Your lawyers pushed the paperwork through.”Ethan stood up. His joints popped. He smoothed his jacket, trying to summon the aura

CLICK. The sound was louder than a gunshot. It was the sound of impotence. Ethan squeezed the trigger again. CLICK. CLICK. Nothing happened. The barrel remained cold. The explosion he had braced for never came. Margaret didn’t flinch. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even look up from her compact mirror. She pressed her lips together, perfecting the shade of crimson, then snapped the mirror shut. “So predictable,” she sighed. She reached into the deep pocket of her trench coat and pulled out a handful of metallic objects. Clatter. She flung them at Ethan. Heavy, brass-cased .45 caliber bullets rained down on his chest and lap, bouncing off the leather seats. Ethan stared at them, his breath hitching in his throat. “You…” Ethan stammered, looking at the empty gun in his hand. “You emptied it?” “While you were screaming at the driver outside the precinct,” Margaret said, casually wiping a smudge of powder from her cheek. “You leave your toys lying around, Ethan. It’s a bad habit