THE KASTELLAN HEIR.

WHAT THE VAULT HELD.

The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and old coffee, and Ronan hated it more than any room he had ever stood in.

He'd broken three speed limits and Sienna's patience getting here. His black suit was crumpled from the drive, tie hanging loose, the excitement of the wedding drained out of him. In its place was something cold and heavy, like a stone dropped into a well.

Behind a glass window, Emeric lay in a white bed, wired to a dozen machines. His skin looked gray. The gold teeth were gone from view, hidden by a breathing mask. A soft, steady beep counted the minutes.

"Poison," Sienna said, her voice barely steady.

Ronan turned.

She stood at his shoulder, her arms wrapped around herself, eyes rimmed red. Her emerald dress was creased and streaked with dust from the hospital's back stairs. She had not stopped moving since the wedding. She looked like someone who'd been running for a very long time.

"The doctors ran the toxicology. It wasn't the cigarettes." She swallowed. "Well, it was. But it wasn't only them. Someone soaked the filter of every one in that carton in something called thallium acetate. Odorless. Tasteless. Slow. He's been smoking it for two days."

"Thallium," Ronan repeated. "Is it..."

"They're treating him. There's an antidote. But it will be a long time before he's out of danger." Her voice cracked. "If he wakes up at all."

Ronan pressed his forehead against the cool glass. He thought of the old man in the limousine, pouring him amber liquid and lighting a cigarette, three gold teeth flashing as he said, Look at you. You really are part of the Kastellan family.

"He'd been with your family for forty years," Sienna whispered. "He wasn't just staff. He was my grandfather. My whole family."

"I know."

"You didn't drink from the cup. You didn't eat from the plate. I told you what to guard against." She laughed, a small, broken sound. "And the one person I forgot to protect was him."

He turned, took her by the shoulders, and held her. She resisted for a heartbeat, then folded against his chest, shoulders shaking, silent. He rested his chin on her hair and stared over her head at the still, gray shape behind the glass.

"We'll find who did this," he said. "And I promise you, Sienna, it'll be the last thing they ever do."

---

At dawn, they went to the vault.

The sub-level three of the Halloway tower was cold as a crypt. A guard in a black uniform escorted them down a long hallway lit by pale blue panels, past rows of numbered steel doors. Warrick walked ahead with a ring of keys, sweating through his loud suit.

"K-series," he said, stopping at the very end of the corridor. "The oldest wing. Sealed thirty years ago, on your grandfather's direct instruction."

The box was a squat steel case set into the wall, its door dull with age. Ronan placed his palm on a scanner, feeling a small, warm prick as it drew a drop of blood, then fitted the brass key into a slot. The lock turned with a soft, greased click.

Sienna helped him drag the case onto the table.

Inside lay three objects: a thick manila folder, a small reel of film in a metal canister, and a sealed envelope.

The envelope had one line written on it, in a slanting, elegant hand.

For my son. To be opened only if I am dead.

Ronan's fingers shook.

"Your father's handwriting," Sienna said. "I've seen it in the archives."

He slit the envelope open with his thumb. Inside was a single sheet of stationery, creased at the folds.

Ronan,

If you are reading this, then my worst fear has come true, and I am no longer able to protect you. I am sorry. There is so much I wanted to say and so little time.

Your mother and I have discovered that Aldric Neville, a man your grandfather trusted as a brother, has been quietly buying shares through nominees for eleven years. He intends to dissolve the family and carve up its holdings among his own creatures. There is only one obstacle in his way: the bloodline. Which means you.

Two nights ago, I received a warning. A mechanic named Gideon Crane, a man Aldric owns body and soul, has been asking about our car. I do not know what he intends. But if anything happens to Elena and me, look no further than the man with pale green eyes.

Do not trust the board. Do not trust the house. Trust only those who have proved it in blood.

And please forgive us for the things we could not tell you.

Your father,

Patrick

For a long time, Ronan couldn't speak.

The words blurred. The paper trembled in his grip. He felt Sienna's hand slide around his, steadying him.

"Crane," he said hoarsely. "It's him. The man at the wedding. He killed them."

"Ronan..."

"He looked right at me, Sienna. He sat there, in the third row, and looked at me."

Warrick cleared his throat gently. "Sir. There's more in the folder."

Ronan opened it. He wished, afterward, that he hadn't.

The first pages were an accident report: a mountain road, a guardrail, a car crushed like tinfoil. Below it, a set of black-and-white photographs. A brake line, sliced neatly with a clean edge. A metal bracket, freshly drilled. A driver's license belonging to a younger, leaner Gideon Crane.

And beneath them, a bank slip, stamped and signed, showing a transfer of two million dollars from an account under the name A. Neville to a shell in Crane's name, three days before the crash.

His grandfather had known. He had known for thirty years.

Ronan closed his eyes. "Why didn't he do anything?"

"Because," said a new voice, thin and reedy, "he had no proof. And he had a grandson to find."

Everyone spun around.

An old man stood at the vault door, leaning on a cane, his face lined and grave. He wore a rumpled suit and thick spectacles, and he was breathing hard as if he'd climbed all the stairs in the building.

"Who are you?" Sienna demanded, her hand snapping to her gun.

"My name is Edmund Quill," the old man said. "Harold Brentford's attorney." He looked directly at Ronan, and his eyes were full of something like sorrow. "And I have been trying to reach you for two weeks. I'm the man who sent the message."

"The text," Ronan whispered. "Someone who loved your mother."

"I was a friend to your mother. And I regret that I was too late to stop the wedding." Quill stepped forward and held out a slim, sealed envelope. "Mr. Kastellan. Harold Brentford knew exactly who you were the day you saved his life."

The vault seemed to tilt.

"What?"

"He left this for you. He instructed me to deliver it only after his granddaughter's second marriage." Quill's gaze was steady. "He said, 'If Vivienne is ever cruel to the boy, that will be my failure, not his.'"

Ronan stared at the envelope.

Then, before he could reach for it, Sienna's phone rang. She answered, listened for three seconds, and lowered it slowly.

"Ronan," she said. "Turn on the news."