THE KASTELLAN HEIR.

RANGE PRACTICE

"Again."

The crack of the gun rattled Ronan's teeth. His shoulder ached. His ears rang under the thick protective headphones. Ten feet away, the paper target hung untouched, a black silhouette with a clean white chest, mocking him.

"You flinch," Sienna said. She stood beside him in a plain gray training jacket, hair tied back, no makeup. It was the first time he'd seen her without her polished executive armor, and somehow she looked even more dangerous. "You're closing your eyes right before you pull."

"I'm not."

"Ronan, I'm literally looking at your face."

He exhaled. It was six in the morning, the day after the shooting. The private range in the basement of the mansion, which he hadn't even known existed until yesterday, was cold and smelled of oil and concrete. His hands were stiff from a sleepless night.

"Feet apart. Arms straight. Don't think about the target. Think about the sight." She stepped behind him and placed her palms over his, adjusting the angle. "Breathe out. Squeeze, don't yank."

He felt the warmth of her body against his back, the brush of her hair on his neck. It was nearly enough to distract him. Nearly.

He squeezed.

The shot punched a hole in the outer edge of the paper, well clear of the silhouette.

"Better," she said.

"That's the wall."

"It's a paper wall. Progress is progress." She let go and stepped away, and he realized she was smiling. "By next month you'll be hitting furniture."

He laughed despite himself. The laughter faded when he saw her eyes go serious again.

"Alfred's stitches?"

"Four. He says it's nothing. He's already polishing the silver." Sienna shook her head. "I don't know how you got so lucky with staff."

"They're not staff." He set the gun down carefully. "They're the only people who never asked me for anything."

They took the stairs to the study. Warrick was waiting, ashen-faced, standing beside a wall of security monitors.

"We've identified the shooter's escape route," he said without preamble. "A rented motorcycle, paid in cash, abandoned four miles south. No prints. No plates."

"And the gunman?"

"Gone. But the rifle was found on the roof." Warrick swallowed. "Military grade. Ex-service, not sold on any civilian market. Someone with real money bought that weapon."

"Aldric," Sienna said flatly.

"We have no proof."

"We don't need proof to know." She paced. "The shooter was in position before Alfred even called you. Someone knew you'd come to that yard. Someone was already watching the box."

Ronan's stomach turned. "You mean a leak."

"I mean a traitor," she said. "Inside."

"Alfred?"

"Alfred took a bullet for you and drove you to safety with a broken rib. It isn't Alfred." Sienna rubbed her forehead. "But somebody told Aldric that Vivienne's family threw your belongings away. Somebody watched the dump."

Ronan picked up the pendant from the desk and turned it over. The brass key lay beside it, glinting under the lamp. 4471-K.

"Warrick," he said. "The Halloway tower. Is there a private vault registry?"

Warrick blinked. "Every branch has a secure deposit floor, sir. Sub-level three. Boxes are numbered by year of opening."

"Look up 4471."

"K-series?" Warrick's eyebrows rose. "That's the oldest wing. Those were sealed by your late grandfather's own order thirty years ago. Nobody has authority to open them without a Kastellan blood signature." He hesitated. "And the key."

"I have both."

"Then it would be a matter of an hour," Warrick said slowly. "Although..."

"Although?"

"The bank vault manager reports a strange thing. Last week, someone asked about the same box. A visitor with a fake credential. He was turned away at the desk."

Ronan and Sienna exchanged a look.

"Description?"

"A tall man in a gray coat. White hair, trimmed beard." Warrick's voice dropped. "He gave the name Neville."

The room felt colder.

"He didn't get in," Warrick added hastily. "The teller followed protocol."

"Then Aldric knows the vault exists," Sienna said. "He just can't open it without you."

"Which means we go this afternoon," Ronan said, "before he tries something smarter."

His phone rang.

The number was blocked. He looked at Sienna, who shook her head sharply. Don't.But her grandfather had told him something, and it bubbled up now: a Kastellan doesn't run from a ringing phone.

He answered and put it on speaker.

"Ronan, my boy!" The voice was warm and jovial, rich as brandy. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

Sienna's face went to stone.

"Mr. Neville," Ronan said evenly. "You missed me at the capital."

"I missed a good party, is what I missed! We'd have loved to celebrate you properly. Tell me, are you feeling well? I heard there was some unpleasantness in Halloway. A robbery, or some such?"

"Nothing serious."

"Marvelous. This city can be so rough on strangers." The old man's chuckle sounded like a dry hinge. "I called to extend an olive branch, Ronan. You are young, you're new, and you are surrounded by people who tell you what you want to hear. I'd like to offer you advice. As one old friend of your family to another."

"I didn't know my family had friends."

"Oh, we go back a long way." The voice softened. "I knew your father well. A good man. Idealistic to a fault. If he'd only listened, he'd be alive today."

Ronan's fingers went white on the phone. Sienna reached for the recording button.

"What are you saying, Aldric?"

"Only that families should know when to sell, my boy. When to step back. The Kastellan name has a splendid history. It would be a tragedy to see it end because of stubbornness." A pause. "Consider my offer. I would pay you very generously for your shares. Enough for you to live quietly, and safely, anywhere you wished."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll simply say it was a pleasure to meet you." The line went quiet, and then, lightly, almost tenderly: "Give my regards to Emeric. I hear his cough is worsening."

The call ended.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the thin hum of the monitors.

"He knows about Emeric's health," Sienna whispered. "He's telling us he can reach him."

"Then we protect him."

"Ronan..."

"Now."

They took the stairs three at a time. The estate's grand hall was empty save for the silver dog, lying by the fire, one enormous paw draped across the marble. Emeric sat in a wingback chair by the window, wrapped in a woolen blanket, a cigarette burning between his fingers.

"Ah, the young master returns," the old man said, his gold teeth flashing. "I heard shooting from the range. Is it going well?"

"Emeric, who's been in the house today? Any deliveries? Visitors?"

"Deliveries? Only the flowers." The old man gestured to a large basket of white lilies on the side table. "The Nevilles sent condolences for your grandfather. Terribly kind of them. They came with a box of my favorite cigarettes, too. How considerate."

Ronan looked at the cigarette in Emeric's hand, then at the elegant black carton beside the vase.

"Put it out," he said quietly.

"Hm?"

"Emeric. Put it out. Please."

The old man frowned, but obeyed, grinding the ember into the ashtray. He started to speak, then coughed, a long, wet, racking cough that doubled him forward. Sienna caught his shoulder.

When the fit passed, he wiped his lips with a handkerchief. There was a thin line of red on the cloth.

"That's just the cold," he said, too quickly.

Nobody in the room believed him.