Chapter 22 - The Ghost of the North
Clara stared at the coordinates on the black cardstock, the numbers burning into her brain like branding iron. She didn't need to plug them into a navigation app; she recognized the general region immediately. Northern Wisconsin—near the desolate, dense pine forests bordering the Canadian wilderness. An area devoid of civilization, cell service, and law enforcement.
The front door opened, and Vincent stepped into the foyer, shaking the crisp autumn chill from his broad shoulders. He took one look at Clara’s pale, ashen face and the black rose clutched in her hand, and his entire demeanor shifted instantly from relaxed husband to lethal predator.
"Clara. What is this?" Vincent demanded, crossing the room in two long strides and taking the card from her trembling fingers.
His eyes scanned the coordinates, and a dark, dangerous shadow fell across his sharp features. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Julian is in federal prison," Clara whispered, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "He's locked away in a maximum-security facility in Colorado. How could he—?"
"It's not Julian," Vincent said, his voice cold as arctic ice. He turned the black card over, running his thumb along the edge of the paper where a faint, embossed watermark was barely visible under the hallway light—a watermark shaped like a coiled viper.
"Who?" Clara asked, a knot tightening in her stomach so hard it made her nauseous. "Who else could possibly know about us?"
"Arthur Sterling had a brother," Vincent said slowly, staring into the middle distance as old, buried memories surfaced. "A man who was cast out of the family decades ago for crimes so dark even the Stirlings couldn't stomach them. Victor Sterling. We thought he died in a shipwreck off the coast of Nova Scotia fifteen years ago."
Vincent crumpled the black card in his massive fist, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched violently. "He didn't die. He went underground. And now he thinks he has a claim on what’s left of the family empire—starting with the woman who destroyed his brother's legacy."
"We need to call the authorities," Clara said, reaching for her phone on the console table.
"No authorities," Vincent intercepted her wrist, his grip firm but gentle. "The local police can't touch Victor in the northern woods. If we want this ended once and for all, we have to cut the head off the snake ourselves."
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"You're walking into a trap," Clara argued, panic surging in her chest. "He wants you to go up there."
"He wants *us* to go up there," Vincent corrected, his dark eyes locking onto hers with absolute, unshakeable devotion. "And we are going. But this time, we don't play defense."
