Chapter 8
The revelation hit the quiet study like a physical blow. Dr. Evans stopped packing his medical bag, his hands freezing over the leather clasp. Marcus, the hardened bodyguard, instinctively moved his hand to the customized firearm holstered beneath his jacket.
"Are you certain, Nerelle?" Alban asked. He didn't raise his voice, but the intensity in his slate-gray eyes pinned her to the sofa. "You heard him ask for the gate codes?"
"Yes, sir," Nerelle nodded, her hands gripping the edges of Alban's suit jacket. "Sibella was crying. She told Thomas she couldn't do it, that you would kill her if you found out. But Thomas said... he said the Valentis promised to make her the Queen of the city if she helped them remove you. He told her it was the only way they would both survive."
Alban let out a slow, measured breath. The pieces of the puzzle clicked together with terrifying clarity. Sibella hadn't just stolen the medical funds to pay off a gambling debt; she had used the money as a down payment on a coup. The fundraiser tonight wasn't just a vanity project to boost her social standing. It was a distraction.
"Marcus," Alban commanded, his voice cold and sharp as a scalpel.
"Boss," Marcus answered, stepping forward.
"Where is Sibella right now?"
"Secured in the basement holding room, sir. Stripped of her phone and jewelry, just as you ordered."
"And the perimeter?"
"Standard night shift. Twelve men on the walls, four on the gates."
Alban stood up, his towering frame dominating the bright, airy room. "It's not enough. If Thomas gave the Valentis the gate codes, they aren't waiting for an invitation. They know the estate is full of unarmed donors and distracted staff tonight. It was the perfect time to strike."
He looked at Dr. Evans. "Take Nerelle to the panic room beneath the wine cellar. Lock the vault from the inside. Do not open it for anyone but me."
"Yes, Alban," the doctor nodded quickly, helping Nerelle to her feet.
"Mr. Rookmere," Nerelle said, stopping in the doorway. She looked back at him, her bare head held high despite her fear. "Be careful."
Alban offered her a single, tight nod. "Go."
Once the door clicked shut, Alban turned to Marcus. The facade of the elegant, high-society donor vanished completely. In his place stood the veteran Mafia boss who had slaughtered his way to the top of the American underworld.
"Kill the exterior floodlights," Alban ordered, walking toward a hidden wall panel behind his mahogany desk. "Drop the heavy steel shutters on all ground-floor windows. Arm the men with heavy caliber weapons."
He pressed a sequence into a digital keypad. The wall pane slid open, revealing a hidden armory of matte-black firearms. Alban retrieved a customized tactical shotgun, racking a shell into the chamber with a deafening, metallic clack.
"We are going down to the basement, Marcus," Alban said, his eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fire. "I need to have one final conversation with my fiancée about exactly what time the Valentis are arriving."
Before Marcus could reply, a massive, concussive explosion rattled the foundation of the mansion.
The bright, luminous lights of the study flickered wildly, died, and were instantly replaced by the blood-red glow of the emergency backup generators. The wail of the perimeter breach alarms began to scream through the hallways.
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Alban looked at the red flashing lights, his jaw set in a grim, violent line.
"Never mind," Alban whispered, his voice slicing through the alarm. "They're already here."
