The clock on Adrian's phone clicked over to 6:00 AM.Vincent's heart monitor emitted a steady, unchanging tone as the doctors began disconnecting life support. The room held its breath, waiting for the inevitable.Vivienne's triumphant laugh shattered the somber atmosphere."It's mine! Everything is mine!" She spun toward the lawyers, her expression radiating vindication. "Adrian refused the inheritance. The documents are unsigned. The secondary beneficiary clause activates immediately. The entire Kane Empire transfers to me."Klaus Bergmann, the senior Swiss attorney, raised his hand calmly. "Actually, Mrs. Kane, there's a complication you should be aware of."Vivienne's smile faltered. "What complication? The will is clear. If Adrian doesn't sign by six AM, I inherit everything.""That is... partially correct." Klaus pulled out another document from his portfolio. This one was sealed with Vincent Kane's personal stamp. "However, Mr. Kane prepared for multiple contingencies. Includin

"Daniel Kane," Elena said. "Seventeen years old. Lives in Whitefish, Montana. Small town, population eight thousand. He goes by Daniel Morrison—his foster mother's last name."Adrian studied the photograph. The boy looked nothing like Vincent. Nothing like Adrian either. He had softer features, lighter hair, an openness in his expression that suggested he'd never learned to guard himself against the world."He's been raised by foster families," Elena continued, pulling up more documentation. "No idea who his real father was. His biological mother gave him up at birth—she was a graduate student Vincent had a brief relationship with. She signed away all parental rights in exchange for a trust fund that's been paying her a comfortable living for the past eighteen years.""And Vincent arranged all of this?""The ultimate backup plan. If you failed his tests, if you died, if you proved too weak to inherit—Daniel was the contingency. Someone completely fresh. Untainted by family drama. A ch

The auditorium held four hundred and sixty-three people in a space designed for three hundred.Students were packed into theater seats like sardines. Teachers stood along the walls where space allowed. Some of the younger kids were crying quietly. Most were just scared silent, understanding that noise might provoke the armed men surrounding them.The explosives were positioned with methodical precision. Adrian counted six devices from his position at the rear entrance—C-4 charges with digital timers, wired to a central control system. Professional grade military ordnance. The kind that could bring down the entire building if detonated.The mercenary leader stood on the auditorium stage, clearly visible to everyone. He was in his forties, built like someone who'd spent decades in special forces, holding a small electronic device in his left hand.A dead-man switch.If his heart stopped. If he released the button. If anyone shot him. The explosives would detonate automatically.Adrian s

Isabella Thornton sat in the back row of New York Family Court, her body present but her spirit somewhere else entirely.She'd been discharged from St. Mary's Hospital three days ago. The neurotoxin had been flushed from her system. Her vital signs were stable. The physical damage had been repaired as much as medical science could manage.But looking at her, no one would call her recovered.She'd lost twenty-three pounds during her hospitalization. Her hair, which had always been her pride, hung limp and lifeless. Her skin had a gray pallor that suggested sleep had become a stranger. Her eyes—those eyes that had once sparkled with mischief and confidence—were hollow windows looking into nothing.She wore a borrowed dress. Margaret had taken back everything she'd given Isabella over the years. The apartment, the clothes, the jewelry. Everything. Isabella was living in a women's shelter in Queens, sharing a room with two other women fleeing their own disasters.Mrs. Sterling sat three r

Brandon Sterling walked out of the Metropolitan Correctional Center on a Tuesday morning looking remarkably well for someone who'd spent seven months in federal custody.He'd lost the soft edges that came from privileged living. His body was lean, hardened by prison weight rooms and the kind of discipline that comes from having nothing but time. His expression carried a new quality—not quite humility, but something like it. The arrogance had been burned away, leaving something harder underneath.He was met by a man in an expensive suit. Harvey Mitchell. Sixty-three years old. Three hundred successful cases. A reputation for taking impossible situations and somehow emerging victorious. He was famous for representing clients everyone else had written off—and winning.He was also famous for being morally flexible. His cases tended to involve creative interpretations of evidence, aggressive attacks on opposition credibility, and a willingness to argue positions that would make most attorn