Bianca Vance grabbed the neckline of my emerald service dress in the middle of the Starlight Foundation gala, ripped it off my shoulder, and hissed, 'That's what you get for bumping into me, trash.' She thought she'd just humiliated a waitress in front of the city's richest families.

The rain began to fall in heavy, grey sheets over the harbor as our sedan crossed the Brooklyn Bridge toward the Petrova maritime docks.

Inside the quiet interior of the armored car, Adrien sat with a dark leather folder open across his knees, analyzing global satellite tracking logs provided by our private security network.

"Volkov’s jet landed in Geneva three hours ago," Adrien reported, tapping the screen. "He’s currently moving toward his estate in Caux, overlooking Lake Geneva. It’s a fortress—fortified with military-grade point-defense systems, private security contractors from South Africa, and complete diplomatic immunity granted by his shell investments in three small European nations."

"He thinks he's untouchable there," I noted, looking out at the rain-streaked window.

"He is untouchable there by legal means," Adrien corrected smoothly. "The Swiss authorities won't execute a US federal search warrant on his compound without six months of diplomatic negotiations. By that time, his engineers will have extracted the raw data from the Zurich drive."

"Then we don't use legal means," I said simply.

Adrien looked up from his screen, a subtle, admiring smile touching his lips. "My sweet, brilliant wife. You sound more like your father every day."

"My father didn't build the Petrova shipping line by asking permissions from European courts, Adrien," I reminded him gently. "When a pirate took a Petrova cargo ship in 1994, my father didn't call the coast guard. He bought the harbor where the pirate parked his boat."

The car pulled to a stop inside Hangar 4 at the Brooklyn Naval Terminal.

The massive steel doors of the hangar slid shut behind us, cutting off the sound of the rain. Inside sat a sleek, dark-gray Gulfstream G650ER jet, its jet engines quiet, its long wings gleaming under the halogen lights.

Standing at the base of the boarding stairs was my uncle, Mikhail Petrova.

Mikhail was sixty years old, stood six-foot-four, had a scar running from his left temple down to his collarbone, and wore a custom tailored wool coat despite being inside a heated hangar. He had commanded the Petrova security division for thirty years—a man who had survived three corporate wars and two political revolutions without ever raising his voice.

"Little star," Mikhail called out in his deep, gravelly Russian accent as I stepped out of the car. He wrapped me in a massive, warm bear hug that made my ribs crack pleasantly. "You look well for a girl who was on the front page of every tabloid in North America this morning."

"Hello, Uncle Mikhail," I smiled, kissing both of his weathered cheeks. "Did you bring the files?"

Mikhail turned his sharp, blue-gray eyes toward Adrien, nodding with deep, mutual respect. "Adrien. Your cousin was an idiot."

"An idiot who gave away our primary satellite protocol, Mikhail," Adrien answered, shaking his hand firmly. "Is the jet ready?"

"The flight plan to Zurich is cleared," Mikhail reported, reaching into his coat and pulling out an encrypted tablet. "We fly under Petrova Diplomatic Registry 88. No customs check in Geneva. No manifest records."

"And Volkov’s compound in Caux?" I asked, stepping closer to the tablet screen.

Mikhail tapped the display, bringing up a 3D architectural render of a massive, stone château perched high on the cliffs above Lake Geneva.

"Volkov bought the estate four years ago," Mikhail explained, pointing to red highlighted zones across the grounds. "He has sixteen armed guards on rotation, thermal perimeter sensors, and a deep subterranean vault beneath the wine cellar. That’s where he took the Zurich drive two hours ago."

"How do we get inside without starting an international incident?" Adrien asked, examining the security grid.

Mikhail looked at me, a wolfish grin spreading across his old, scarred face.

"We don't get inside by breaking the doors, Adrien," Mikhail said softly. "We get inside because Viktor Volkov is hosting his annual private art auction tomorrow evening... and his head of security just requested three extra specialized art handlers from an agency in Milan."

I looked at Adrien, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across my face.

"Specialized art handlers?" I murmured. "How fortunate. I happen to have extensive experience carrying trays."