Chapter 5 - The Uninvited Guest
By three in the afternoon, Scarlett’s head was thumping with a dull, persistent ache.
Eleanor’s training was relentless. In five hours, Scarlett had memorized twenty-four security codes, three private pharmacy delivery routes, the names and faces of eighteen high-ranking syndicate lieutenants, and the exact temperature Victor required for his evening tea (185 degrees Fahrenheit, fresh mint, no sugar).
She had just finished filing the Moretti deeds into the heavy floor safe behind the library wall when the house phone on her desk chimed—a low, melodic tone that meant the main gate had been triggered.
Scarlett looked at her monitor. A sleek, crimson Ferrari was idling at the iron gates outside. No clearance code showed on the screen.
"Eleanor," Scarlett called out into the adjoining office. "We have an unannounced arrival."
Eleanor walked in, looked at the screen, and her face went completely bloodless. "Oh, God."
"Who is it?" Scarlett asked, her finger already hovering near the red lockdown trigger under her desk.
"Don't touch that button," Eleanor whispered, her voice shaking. "That's Julian Vance. Victor's younger brother."
Scarlett frowned, remembering what Frank had said at the gate that morning. "Frank told me his brother died six years ago."
"Julian should be dead," Eleanor said, stepping toward the window with hands that shook violently. "Six years ago, he sold the family's shipping contracts to a syndicate in Chicago and tried to put a bullet in Victor's back while they were on a boat off Montauk. Victor threw him overboard. Everyone thought the currents took him."
The crimson Ferrari didn't wait for the gate to open.
The iron gates suddenly swung inward—someone on the security team inside the guardhouse had overridden the main lock.
"The guards," Scarlett said, her heart slamming against her ribs as she watched two security personnel at the gate stand down, raising their hands in submission. "They turned."
"Julian bought the gate team," Eleanor rasped, stumbling back toward the inner hallway. "He's come for the ledger. Victor!" she screamed toward the private study. "Victor, lockdown!"
Before Eleanor could reach the inner doors, the library's heavy oak panels were kicked open with a thunderous crack.
Four men in tactical gear burst into the room, their weapons raised. Behind them walked a man who looked like an old, ruined mirror image of Victor.
Julian Vance was thinner, his hair completely white, his skin drawn tight over a gaunt, scarred face that looked as though it had been pieced back together by a military surgeon. He wore an expensive velvet coat, and his left leg moved with a heavy, mechanical limp.
In his right hand, he held a sleek black revolver with a silencer attached to the barrel.
"Hello, Eleanor," Julian rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves blowing across gravel. "You look terrible. Is my dear brother at home, or is he still hiding behind his books?"
Julian's cold blue eyes swept past Eleanor and landed directly on Scarlett, who was standing beside her desk, her hand resting flat against the mahogany surface.
"Well, well," Julian sneered, stepping closer, his boots clicking on the slate floor. "Who is this little bird? Victor's new secretary? You're a bit young for him, aren't you, my dear?"
Scarlett didn't move. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat, but her hand under the edge of the desk had found the cold, small toggle switch Eleanor had pointed out hours ago—the one that didn't lock the doors, but alerted the private tactical unit stationed in the basement bunker.
She flipped it.
"You're in the wrong house, sir," Scarlett said, her voice dropping into that same quiet, steady pitch she had used in the diner.
Julian laughed—a dry, hacking sound. "Am I? I built half these walls, girl. Now, where is my brother keeping the master encryption key for the offshore accounts? Tell me, and I won't paint this pretty desk with Eleanor's brains."
"He's not keeping it in the desk," a voice said from the shadows near the balcony.
Julian spun around, raising his revolver.
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Victor stepped out from behind the heavy velvet drapes. He wasn't holding a weapon. His hands were tucked casually into his trouser pockets, his charcoal suit flawless, his face as cold and emotionless as a marble statue.
"Julian," Victor said softly. "You always did have terrible timing. I was just having my tea."
