Trevor's shriek still echoed off the study walls. He was on his feet now, pacing like a caged animal, his hands gesturing wildly. "Did you not hear a single word Donald just said? Viktor Crane is a killer. An actual, professional, has-probably-killed-more-people-than-we've-met killer. And you want to just... walk into his club? Like we're stopping by for drinks?" Ethan remained seated, his calm a stark contrast to Trevor's spiraling panic. "That's exactly what I want to do." "Then you're insane. Clinically, certifiably insane. I'm saying this as your best friend, you need professional help." "Trevor." Ethan's voice cut through the hysteria. "Think about it. If Viktor wanted me dead in a dark alley, he would have sent his mercenaries to a dark alley. But he didn't. He ambushed me in broad daylight, at a corporate headquarters, with witnesses. He's not stupid. He knows that if my blood is spilled where the world can see, the Silvercrest family will burn everything he's ever built to

The Silvercrest Foundation's annual charity gala was held in the grandest ballroom the city had to offer, a cathedral of crystal and marble that made the university's Donor Banquet look like a high school dance. Chandeliers cascaded from the ceiling like waterfalls of light. Ice sculptures of the Silvercrest crest flanked the entrance. A string orchestra played something elegant and timeless while men in tuxedos and women in couture gowns glided across the polished floor.Ethan stood near the center of it all, Amelia on his arm in a gown of deep emerald that matched the fire in her eyes. She had insisted on attending despite the danger. "If you're going to walk into a trap," she had said, "you're not walking in alone."Trevor hovered nearby, nursing a glass of champagne with the nervous energy of a man waiting for a bomb to detonate. He had been briefed on the threat. He had seen the intercepted communications. And yet here he was, wearing a tuxedo, pretending everything was normal wh

The Silvercrest Manor's medical wing was quieter than the rest of the estate, a sanctuary of white walls, soft lighting, and the faint antiseptic scent of healing. Sable Cross lay propped against a mountain of pillows, her shoulder and side swathed in bandages. Monitors beeped a steady rhythm. An IV dripped clear fluid into her arm. She looked smaller than she had in tactical gear, diminished by the sterile gown and the pallor of her skin, but her eyes remained sharp. They tracked Ethan the moment he entered the room."You should be resting," he said, taking the chair beside her bed."You should be in a bunker." Her voice was hoarse but steady. "Yet here we both are."Ethan managed a faint smile. "I wanted to check on you. The doctors say you'll make a full recovery, but you're out of action for at least a month.""A month is generous. I'll be back in two weeks.""Sable...""I've had worse." She turned her head toward the window, where afternoon light filtered through gauze curtains.

Martin Ashford stood rigid, his face a storm of emotions, fury, humiliation, fear."You're making a mistake," Martin said quietly. "The other families will hear about this. The Board of Elders will hear about this. You're tearing down your own people to serve justice for a nobody, a bodyguard and her crippled brother. Do you think that will make you popular? Do you think that will make you strong?"Ethan met his gaze without flinching. "I don't need to be popular. I need to be just and there's a difference. You've spent thirty years confusing the two."Martin's jaw tightened. "Lord Marcus will not be pleased.""Lord Marcus is not the heir to this family. I am and I will not tolerate corruption hiding behind the Silvercrest crest. Not from you or anyone." Ethan turned toward the door. "You have until noon, Julian. If I don't receive confirmation of your confession by then, option two takes effect immediately."Julian looked up, tears streaming down his face. "I'll do it. I'll confess.

Lord Marcus Silvercrest's private study was not a room, it was a statement. Everything in it had been chosen to intimidate. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany, lined with first editions that had never been read. The fireplace was large enough to roast a boar, its mantel carved with scenes from Silvercrest history, battles won, treaties signed, rivals crushed. The desk was a monolith of black marble, bare except for a single fountain pen and a crystal decanter of amber whiskey. And behind the desk, framed by the dying light of evening, sat Lord Marcus Silvercrest himself.He was younger than Ethan had expected. In his late thirties or early forties, with the sharp, aristocratic features that ran in the Silvercrest bloodline, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes the color of winter frost. His suit was immaculate, his posture perfect, his smile warm and utterly untrustworthy."Nephew." Marcus rose as Ethan entered, extending a hand. "At last. I've been eager to meet you properly. The