Chapter 8 - The Viper’s Strike
The morning passed with agonizing slowness.
I stayed in the study, pacing back and forth across the Persian rug. Outside, the sun rose over the mountains, painting the sky in pale shades of orange and pink, but the warmth did not reach inside the heavy stone walls of the mansion.
Mrs. Hudson brought me breakfast, but I couldn't eat a single bite. My stomach was in knots, my mind consumed by images of Dominic walking into a trap in Philadelphia.
By noon, the house was deathly quiet. Marcus stood guard outside my study door, his heavy frame an imposing barrier against the world.
"Marcus?" I called out, opening the door slightly.
"Yes, Miss Lily?" he asked, turning around.
"Have you heard from him?"
"Boss reached Philadelphia thirty minutes ago," Marcus reported calmly. "The perimeter team is securing Vance's estate. Everything is going according to plan."
I let out a breath of relief, leaning against the doorframe. "Thank God."
Suddenly, the lights in the hallway flickered twice and died.
The emergency amber backup lights buzzed to life overhead, casting long, eerie shadows across the corridor. Simultaneously, the heavy comms radio on Marcus’s belt erupted into harsh, distorted static.
"Alpha team! Emergency! We have a breach at the main utility building! The landlines and backup generators are—"
The radio cut out into high-pitched feedback.
Marcus’s hand instantly flew to his holster, drawing his weapon. "Miss Lily, get inside the study! Lock the steel door!"
"What's happening?!" I panicked.
"Vance didn't stay in Philadelphia," Marcus realized, his eyes widening in horror. "It was a feint! He leaked his location to pull Dominic away from the estate!"
Before Marcus could push me into the panic room, a sharp, silenced gunshot cracked through the corridor.
Pfft!
A bullet struck Marcus squarely in the shoulder. He let out a grunt of pain, stumbling backward against the wall, firing three rapid shots down the hallway toward the grand staircase.
A group of five men in unmarked tactical gear rushed down the hall, their weapons raised. Leading them was an older man with silver hair, sharp blue eyes, and a tailored pinstripe suit. He carried a heavy gold-handled cane in his left hand and a suppressed pistol in his right.
Uncle Vance.
"Clear the guard!" Vance barked coldly to his men.
Two of his men tackled the wounded Marcus to the floor, disarming him and pinning his arms behind his back. Vance walked slowly down the corridor, his cane clicking against the floorboards until he stopped right in front of my study door.
He looked at me—a broke waitress in a silk robe—with an expression of utter disgust.
"So," Vance sneered, his voice thin and sharp like a razor blade. "This is the little charity case that ruined fifteen years of my careful work. This is the girl who made Dominic forget his rules."
I stood my ground, my hands curling into fists, though my body trembled violently. "Dominic knows what you did. He’s in Philadelphia right now destroying your network."
Vance let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Dominic is chasing ghosts in an empty warehouse in Philly. By the time he realizes I tricked him and drives back, you will be dead, his syndicate will be under my control, and he will finally be the cold, unfeeling weapon I raised him to be."
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Vance raised his pistol, pointing the barrel straight between my eyes.
"Nothing personal, my dear," Vance smiled cruelly. "Touch is weakness. And you were his greatest weakness."
