Vivienne's POV
The fire escape had forty floors of rusted metal stairs that swayed in the wind.
I didn't look down. If I looked down, I'd freeze. If I froze, the FBI would catch us. If the FBI caught us, I'd never find out who wanted me dead.
So I climbed down, one shaking step at a time, following Damian's broad back through the darkness.
By the time we reached the ground, my legs felt like water and my hands were bleeding from gripping the cold metal. Damian caught me when I stumbled, his grip strong and steady.
You did good, he said quietly. It might have been the nicest thing he'd ever said to me.
We spent the rest of the day hiding in a motel in Queens—the kind with hourly rates and no questions asked. Damian made me stay away from the windows while he planned our break-in.
Now it was midnight, and we stood in the shadows across the street from the Ashford mansion.
My childhood home looked like something from a fairy tale—all white columns and perfect gardens and old money. I used to love this house. Now it just looked like a beautiful lie.
Security patrols every twenty minutes, Damian whispered, checking his watch. Cameras cover the front gate, side entrances, and back patio. But there's a blind spot near the east wing where the gardener's shed blocks the view.
How do you know all this?
I've been watching the property for three days. He looked at me. Since before I took this job.
Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist. But before I could ask what he meant, he grabbed my hand.
Move. Now.
We ran across the street, staying low, keeping to the shadows. My heart pounded so hard I thought everyone in Manhattan could hear it.
The mansion loomed above us, dark except for a few lights on the second floor. Patricia's bedroom, probably. Marcus had his own penthouse downtown now—he never stayed here.
Damian led me to the east wing, to a window half-hidden behind overgrown bushes. He pulled out a small tool and worked on the lock with quick, expert movements.
Where did you learn to do that? I whispered.
The military teaches you lots of useful skills. The lock clicked open. Especially when you need to get into places you're not supposed to be.
We climbed through the window into what used to be the music room. I hadn't been in here since I was a teenager, back when Mother was still alive and made me practice piano every day.
Now it was dusty and empty, all the furniture covered in white sheets like ghosts.
Your father's study is upstairs, east corridor, Damian said, not asking, just knowing. The security system has motion sensors on the main staircase, but not the servant's stairs.
How do you
I told you. I've been watching. His dark eyes met mine in the shadows. I've been planning this for a long time, Vivienne.
The way he said my name, my first name, not Ms. Ashford, sent chills down my spine. But there was no time to think about it.
We moved through the dark mansion like thieves. Every shadow made me jump. Every creak of the old floors made my heart stop. This was my home. I'd lived here for eighteen years. But tonight it felt like enemy territory.
The servant's stairs were narrow and dark. Damian went first, checking each step for noise before putting his full weight down. I followed, trying to breathe quietly, trying not to think about what would happen if Patricia found us.
My father's study was at the end of the east corridor, behind a heavy wooden door.
Locked, of course.
The key, I whispered. Father kept it hidden in
But Damian was already working on the lock with his tools. Twenty seconds later, the door opened silently.
The study looked exactly the same as the last time I'd seen it, three months ago at Father's funeral. Same heavy desk. Same leather chairs. Same smell of old books and expensive cigars.
Same lies hiding in every drawer.
Start looking, Damian said, already moving to the filing cabinets. We have maybe ten minutes before the next security patrol.
I went to Father's desk, my hands shaking. The drawers were locked, but I knew where he kept the key, inside a hollowed-out book on the shelf. The Prince by Machiavelli. Father's idea of a joke.
The key was still there.
I opened the first drawer and found normal things, pens, business cards, a calendar. The second drawer had files about real estate deals and property investments. Nothing suspicious.
The third drawer was different.
The files inside had labels like Insurance, Contingency Plans, and Private Transactions. My hands shook as I opened the first one.
Inside were bank statements showing millions of dollars moving through offshore accounts. Companies I'd never heard of. Names I didn't recognize. Payments labeled as consulting fees and business expenses that couldn't possibly be legitimate.
Oh God, I whispered.
Damian appeared beside me, looking over my shoulder. His jaw tightened as he read.
Money laundering, he said quietly. Your father was moving dirty money through his real estate company. Making it look clean.
I opened another file. This one had photographs, grainy security camera images of men in expensive suits meeting in parking garages and empty warehouses. Father was in several of the photos, shaking hands with people who looked dangerous.
One photo showed Father with a silver-haired man who smiled like a shark. The caption read: Nikolai Volkov—Partnership Agreement 1995.
Who's Nikolai Volkov? I asked.
Damian's face went completely blank. Russian organized crime. One of the most powerful crime bosses on the East Coast. He grabbed the file and flipped through it. Your father was in business with him for almost thirty years.
My stomach turned. My father was a criminal.
Yes. Damian's voice was hard. And we need to know why that got you shot.
I kept searching, finding more files, more evidence, more proof that everything I'd believed about my father was a lie. Bribes to politicians. Blackmail payments. Contracts with shell companies that had to be fronts for criminal activity.
One file made my blood run cold. It was labeled Problem Resolution—2019.
Inside was a report about a traffic incident that needed to be handled discreetly. The date was May 15, 2019.
I was about to read more when Damian suddenly grabbed my arm, his grip painful.
Someone's here, he whispered.
We both froze, listening.
Voices from downstairs. Getting louder. Coming up the stairs.
told you to destroy everything in that study! a man's voice hissed. Marcus.
I tried! Patricia's voice, sharp and angry. The locks are custom. I needed a specialist, and I couldn't risk drawing attention
Well, someone's drawn attention now. The alarm system logged an entry twenty minutes ago.
My heart stopped. The alarm. We'd tripped the alarm.
Get the files, Damian said urgently, shoving papers into his jacket. Everything you can carry. Move!
I grabbed files with shaking hands, stuffing them inside my coat. The voices were getting closer, footsteps in the hallway.
Damian pulled me toward the window. We're going out this way
The study door burst open.
Marcus stood there, staring at us with wide eyes. Behind him, Patricia gasped.
Vivienne? Marcus's voice was full of fake shock. What are you doing here?
Call security, Patricia said immediately, pulling out her phone. Call the police. She's broken into our home
Your home? I heard myself say, anger flooding through the fear. This is my father's house. These are his files. What are you hiding, Patricia?
I'm hiding nothing. Patricia's smile was cold. But you're trespassing. And after Thomas Chen's statement about your mental state, breaking in here just proves you're unstable. The FBI will love hearing about this.
Damian moved between me and them, his hand near his gun. Step aside.
Marcus laughed. Or what? You'll shoot us? In front of witnesses? With security on the way?
He was right. We were trapped.
But then Damian did something I didn't expect. He pulled out his phone and held it up, showing the screen.
I've been recording this entire conversation, he said calmly. Including the part where you mentioned destroying evidence in this study. I wonder what the FBI would think about that?
Patricia's face went white. Marcus took a step back.
You're bluffing, Patricia said.
Try me. Damian's voice was deadly quiet. Step aside, or I send this recording to Agent Marks right now. Along with all the files we just found showing Theodore Ashford's connections to organized crime. I'm sure the FBI would love to investigate who else in this family was involved.
The silence stretched out forever.
Finally, Marcus stepped back. Let them go.
Marcus
Let them go, Mother. His eyes were fixed on the files in my arms. They can't prove anything with those. It's all circumstantial.
We moved past them toward the hallway. Damian kept himself between me and them, his hand still near his weapon.
We were almost to the stairs when Patricia's voice stopped us cold.
You think your father was the villain in this story? She laughed, bitter and cruel. He was trying to get out, Vivienne. Trying to go clean, turn evidence over to the FBI, play the hero. That's why someone had to stop him.
I turned back to look at her. What are you saying?
Patricia's smile was terrifying. I'm saying your father didn't die of a heart attack. He was murdered. Just like someone tried to murder you. And if you keep digging, if you keep looking into things that don't concern you, you'll end up just like him.
Is that a threat? Damian asked.
It's a fact. Marcus stepped forward, his face cold. Walk away, Vivienne. Take your files, run away, disappear. Because the people who killed Father—the people who want you dead—they're not going to stop. And we can't protect you if you keep making yourself a target.
Can't protect me? I stared at my brother. Or won't?
Marcus didn't answer.
Behind him, Patricia pulled out her phone. Security will be here in two minutes. I suggest you leave before they arrive and you have to explain why you're stealing from your own family.
Damian pulled me toward the stairs. Move. Now.
We ran.
Down the servant's stairs, through the dark corridors, out the window we'd come through. Behind us, I heard security guards shouting, dogs barking, lights flooding the grounds.
We made it to Damian's car and drove away fast, tires squealing on the quiet street.
I clutched the stolen files to my chest, breathing hard, my heart pounding.
Did you really record them? I asked.
Damian glanced at me, and for the first time, I saw something that might have been a smile.
No. I was bluffing.
Despite everything the fear, the danger, the insanity of what we'd just done—I started laughing. It was either laugh or cry, and I was so tired of crying.
We drove in silence for several minutes before I looked at the files in my lap. The one labeled Problem Resolution, 2019 sat on top.
What's the date on that file? Damian asked, his voice suddenly strange.
May 15, 2019. Why?
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind.
Damian? What's wrong?
He pulled the car over to the side of the road so fast I jerked forward against my seatbelt.
Give me that file, he said.
What
Give it to me. Now.
His voice was shaking. I'd never heard emotion in his voice before.
With trembling hands, I gave him the file.
He opened it and read the first page. All the color drained from his face.
What is it? I whispered.
When he looked at me, his eyes held something I'd never seen before.
Rage. Pure, terrible rage.
That date, he said, his voice barely controlled. May 15, 2019. That's the night my sister was killed.
My blood went cold.
Emma Cross. Age twenty-two. Hit-and-run in Brooklyn. His hands shook as he held the file. The case was never solved. The driver was never found. It went cold.
He looked down at the report in his hands, and his voice broke.
This file says the driver was your father. And that he ordered my sister killed to cover up something she witnessed.
The world stopped spinning.
Damian looked at me, and I saw everything in his eyes—grief, fury, betrayal.
I didn't take this job to protect you, he said quietly. I took it to destroy your family. To find proof that your father murdered my sister.
He held up the file.
And now I have it.