He knew this property better than the architects who had originally designed it.During his three years living with the family, he had mapped every security camera, every blind spot, and every patrol route.He stayed near the tree line, avoiding the chaotic glow of the main gates.The sprawling driveway was a parking lot of imported luxury cars.Valets in crisp red vests rushed back and forth, shouting orders over the dull roar of a live jazz band playing somewhere inside.Silvan moved toward the eastern perimeter, where a thick row of towering hydrangeas hid a narrow gap in the wrought-iron fence.He remembered planting those exact hydrangeas himself on a warm Sunday morning.Declan had laughed at him back then, swirling a glass of scotch and calling it a servant’s work.Silvan hadn't cared, because Miranda had smiled from the porch and said she loved the flowers.He pushed past the dense leaves, the damp branches brushing against his faded gray prison jacket.He slipped through the

The freezing rain fell in heavy, relentless sheets, soaking through the thin canvas of Silvan’s jacket before he even reached the end of the block.He didn't bother looking back at the glowing wrought-iron gates of the Cross estate, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the dark asphalt ahead.The metallic taste of copper coated his tongue, a bitter reminder of how hard he had hit the pavement when the security guards threw him out.He wiped the back of his trembling hand across his mouth, leaving a streak of watered-down blood across his bruised knuckles.The city lights smeared in the torrential downpour, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty suburban sidewalks.A deep, visceral anger started to uncoil in his chest, hot and demanding as the initial shock of Miranda's betrayal began to wear off.It was the kind of blind, consuming rage that made men do stupid things, the kind that got inmates sent to solitary confinement for weeks at a time.He closed his eyes mid-stride, forci

The massive glass doors of the Laurent estate glided open without a single sound.Zane Mercer led the way into a foyer that felt far more like a museum than a private residence.Silvan kept his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the worn canvas rubbing against his damp jacket.His scuffed boots echoed on the polished marble floor, loud and out of place in the pristine silence.Dozens of uniformed staff members stood along the walls, keeping their eyes respectfully lowered as they passed.Silvan ignored the staff, his attention caught by the towering oil portraits lining the grand corridor.The golden frames were immaculate, highlighting faces from centuries past under soft, focused lighting.He stopped walking, his gaze fixed on a painting of a man wearing an old-fashioned three-piece suit.The brass plaque beneath the canvas read 'Arthur Laurent, 1892'.The man in the frame shared Silvan’s exact jawline, the same sharp cheekbones, and the same dark, calculating eyes.He moved to the