Through the crack in the door, Vincent glimpsed Marcus’s silhouette heading towards the window, parting the heavy curtains to peer into the night.
The same window where Vincent had stood countless times, contemplating his domain, believing it to be impenetrable.
Elena moved slightly and Vincent noticed something that quickened his pulse.
She was armed.
A small pistol rested on her hip, concealed beneath her simple black dress.
The cleaning lady who had served him coffee every morning for three years carried a firearm in his home.
“The trunk is clean!” shouted a third voice from across the room.
“Only cash and a few pieces of jewelry.”
Marcus laughed, but his laughter lacked warmth.
“He keeps his real secrets elsewhere.”
We need him to stay alive long enough to tell us where he is.
Vincent clenched his fists.
The empire he had built, the legacy he had protected, was being dissected by his own blood.
But the deepest horror was realizing that all of this had been planned for a long time.
How many conversations had Marcus overheard?
How many family dinners had been reconnaissance missions?
Elena brought her lips close to her ear.
“There’s something else you should know,” he murmured in a voice so deep that Vincent felt his chest tighten.
“It’s not just about money or territory.”
