Ivan Kozlov walked into Vincent's office like death wearing human skin.Vincent had met dangerous men before—men who postured, who threatened, who tried to intimidate with words and gestures. Ivan did none of that. He simply existed, and existence itself became threatening. Tall, built like he lifted concrete blocks for recreation, with eyes so flat they looked painted on. Scars crossed his knuckles and disappeared under his collar. A man whose body was a map of violence survived."Mr. Cross." Ivan's accent was thick, Eastern European. Russian, maybe. Ukrainian. Somewhere that bred men who didn't flinch at blood. "You have problem."Not a question. A statement.Vincent gestured to the chair across from his desk. Ivan sat, movements economical, never taking his eyes off Vincent. Predator assessing prey."I need someone scared," Vincent said. "Woman in her thirties. She's currently under heavy protection. I need her terrified enough to leave the country.""You need her dead." Ivan's voi

Lillian leaned forward in the visiting room, every word Vincent spoke landing like salvation."Sterling family trusts always have marriage clauses," Vincent continued, voice low and conspiratorial. "Old money families are obsessed with legitimate heirs. They require marriages to be real—not business arrangements, not fraudulent contracts. Actual, functioning marriages.""And you think Blake's marriage to Emma is fake?" Lillian's heart was racing. This was it. The weapon she'd been searching for."I don't just think. I know for sure." Vincent pulled out his phone, showed her a timeline. "They've known each other for what, two months? Three? And suddenly they're married? Right when Blake needs to secure his inheritance? That's not love, Lillian. That's transaction."Lillian studied the timeline, mind spinning. Blake had always been calculating. Always three steps ahead. Of course he'd marry someone purely for strategic reasons. Emma was broke, desperate, easily manipulated. The perfect

Blake's silence stretched too long.Emma watched the joy drain from his face, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like guilt. Her excitement curdled in her stomach, turning sour and heavy."Blake?" Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be happy for me."Blake seemed to physically shake himself, forcing his expression into something resembling a smile. But it was wrong. Too stiff. Too careful. "I am happy for you. You deserve this position.""Then why do you look like I just told you someone died?"Blake exhaled slowly, and Emma felt dread creeping up her spine. She knew that look. That's the look of someone about to confess something they'd been hiding."There's something you should know about Stratton Industries," Blake said carefully. "Something I should have told you before you applied."Emma's hands clenched in her lap. "What?""It's mine. Stratton Industries belongs to me. It was my mother's company. Her legacy." Blake met her ey

Blake sat in the back corner of Morrison's Diner, Sam and four security guards positioned strategically around the room.Carter walked in looking like a corpse that forgot to die. His clothes hung loose, like he'd lost twenty pounds. Stubble covered his face. His eyes were hollow, darting, the look of someone who'd learned what desperation tasted like and couldn't stop choking on it.He spotted Blake, hurried over. Sam intercepted him halfway."Arms up."Carter submitted to the pat-down without protest, which told Blake everything about how broken he was. The old Carter would've complained, made it about his dignity. This Carter just wanted whatever Blake was offering.Sam nodded. Carter approached the booth, slid in across from Blake."Thank you for meeting me," Carter said, voice rough. "I know you have no reason to trust me—""I don't. So make this fast."Carter leaned forward, urgent. "Lillian and Vincent are planning to have Emma killed. I overheard them discussing it at a wareho

Midnight tasted like rust and gasoline.The warehouse loomed ahead, all broken windows and skeletal metal beams silhouetted against a moonless sky. Blake's armored vehicle rolled to a stop fifty yards from the entrance, engine ticking in the sudden silence.Emma's hand found the door handle. Blake caught her wrist."Wait." His voice was low, controlled. "Sam's team needs thirty more seconds to confirm positions."Emma counted heartbeats instead of seconds. Twenty-three before Blake's earpiece crackled with Sam's voice."All positions secured. You're clear."Blake released her wrist, grabbed the duffel bag from the backseat. Fake bills wrapped around cut newspaper, enough weight to sell the illusion. Emma's hands trembled as she opened her door.The warehouse swallowed them whole.Darkness pressed from all sides, broken only by a single floodlight in the center of the space. It illuminated a chair. A body slumped in that chair. Duct tape. Blood.David.Emma's breath stopped. His face wa