Chapter 8 - Shadows from the Past
"Get back," I told Evan, my voice dropping into a sharp, uncompromising command that brooked no argument.
Evan didn't move. He stood frozen, staring at the front doors with eyes wide with a terror I hadn't seen him exhibit even when throwing baseballs at my head. "It’s... it’s them."
"Who?" I demanded, stepping in front of him and reaching instinctively into my pocket for my phone, only to realize I had left it on the kitchen counter.
Before I could answer my own question, the heavy brass lock snapped with a loud, metallic crack. The oak doors swung inward, pushed open by two men in dark tactical gear, their faces hidden behind black ski masks, heavy combat boots tracking melting snow across the pristine white marble foyer.
Behind them stepped a third man—taller, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat that looked entirely out of place in a home invasion, his silver-streaked hair combed straight back. He held a silver-headed cane in one gloved hand, tapping it rhythmically against the floor.
"Well, well, well," Victor Vance purred.
The name hit my brain like a physical blow. Adrian’s uncle. The man the financial news outlets whispered about in hushed tones—the faction of the family Adrian had broken away from when he seized control of the shipping empire four years ago.
"Where’s your boss, little bird?" Victor asked, his eyes scanning the grand staircase as Caleb, Noah, and Luke peered in terror from the upper landing, clutching each other like frightened birds.
"Mr. Vale isn't home," I said steadily, stepping forward to block the staircase entirely. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but my voice remained ice-cold. "You’re trespassing. I suggest you turn around before the police—or Mr. Vale’s private security—turn you into fertilizer."
Victor chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that made my skin crawl. He stepped further into the foyer, his cane tapping rhythmically. "Security? My dear, Adrian’s private security detail was paid off or tied up in the woods twenty minutes ago. As for the police? Greenwich PD doesn't answer calls from this estate unless Adrian initiates the protocol himself. And right now, my nephew is sitting in a boardroom in Manhattan staring at a fake crisis while I clean house."
Evan let out a small, terrified gasp behind me.
Victor’s cold eyes shifted from me to Evan, then to the three younger boys trembling on the landing. "Ah. The heirs. Four little obstacles standing between my branch of the family and the entire shipping conglomerate. How tragic it would be if a terrible domestic accident occurred while the new nanny was on duty."
My hands curled into tight fists inside the pockets of my cardigan. My mind raced at a thousand miles an hour. Adrian was in Manhattan. Security was compromised. The boys were upstairs, trapped.
And my sister’s surgery was scheduled for Friday. If I died here on this marble floor, Maya would never get her liver.
Fear could wait.
"You want the company?" I asked, taking a slow step toward Victor, forcing him to focus his attention entirely on me. "Go take it in court. Leave the kids out of it."
Victor smiled, a cruel, predatory curve of his lips. "Courts are for people with patience, Miss... what did Adrian call you? The latest casualty?"
"Nia Carter," I said, stepping within arm’s reach of him. "And you’re about to find out why the last fourteen caregivers quit."
Victor raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? Did they throw tantrums?"
"No," I whispered. "They sued."
Before Victor could react, I executed a textbook defensive sweep I had learned during my six months working security detail at a women’s shelter in downtown Chicago—stepping hard on his instep with my heavy combat boot while driving the heel of my palm upward into the base of his chin.
The crack of impact echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
Victor stumbled backward, his silver-headed cane clattering against the marble floor as he grabbed his jaw, cursing in shock and pain.
"GRAB THEM!" Victor roared, spitting blood onto the pristine white tiles.
The two tactical-gear thugs lunged forward like starving wolves.
"EVAN! GET YOUR BROTHERS AND RUN!" I screamed, turning and driving my elbow directly into the stomach of the nearest attacker, sending him doubling over with a gasp of air.
Evan didn't hesitate. He turned, leaped up the stairs three at a time, and began screaming at Caleb, Noah, and Luke to run toward the private panic room hidden behind the third-floor library bookcase.
I turned to face the second thug, but before I could throw another punch, a heavy forearm wrapped around my throat from behind, cutting off my air supply. Black spots danced across my vision as I clawed desperately at the arm pinning me against a solid chest.
"Got her, Mr. Vance," the thug snarled in my ear.
May you like
Victor straightened up, wiping blood from his lip, his eyes burning with absolute, murderous rage. He stepped close to me, lifting my chin with the cold metal head of his cane.
"You have a lot of spirit, Miss Carter," Victor hissed, his face inches from mine. "Too bad it’s going to get you buried in the woods."
