CHAPTER 2 — THE LION IN THE BALLROOM

The Maybach tore through the empty streets of Manhattan, the engine roaring like a caged beast.

I stared at the note in my trembling hand. William had played me perfectly. He knew I would go for the vault. He knew I would trigger the alarms. While his mercenaries kept us occupied at the tower, he had gone straight to the one person we had left defenseless.

June.

“Dad, what is it?” Claire asked, seeing the blood drain from my face.

I handed her the note. She read it, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror.

“No,” Claire choked out, burying her face in her hands. “He has my mother. He’s going to kill her.”

“He is not going to kill anyone tonight,” I said, my voice hardening into a cold, lethal resolve.

I leaned forward, looking at Marcus through the rearview mirror. “Marcus, when we get to the hospital, I am going in alone. You stay in the car with Claire and Emma. Lock the doors. If I am not back in twenty minutes, you drive this car straight to the FBI field office and hand them the ledger. Do not wait for me.”

“Sir, respectfully, I am not letting you walk into a hostage situation unarmed,” Marcus growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“This isn't a negotiation, Marcus,” I snapped. “William wants me. He wants the satisfaction of watching me break. If he sees you, he’ll kill June instantly.”

Claire grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my soaked tuxedo shirt. “You can't go alone. He’ll kill you both!”

“I won't let that happen, sweetheart,” I said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. I looked at Emma, who was crying silently in the corner of the seat. “I failed to protect your mother eighteen years ago, Claire. I am not failing this family again.”

Marcus slammed on the brakes, pulling the Maybach into the dark, secluded loading dock at the back of Mass General Hospital.

I took the black leather ledger—the copy William had left to mock me—and stepped out of the car.

“Twenty minutes, Marcus,” I reminded him.

I walked through the double doors of the loading dock, slipping past the empty security desk. The hospital was quiet, bathed in the eerie, fluorescent glow of the graveyard shift.

I knew exactly where William would be.

He wouldn't take June to a crowded ICU ward. He would take her somewhere private. Somewhere he controlled.

The abandoned surgical wing on the fourth floor. It was currently under renovation, completely empty and sealed off from the public.

I took the service elevator up, my heart pounding a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

When the doors opened on the fourth floor, the hallway was dark, illuminated only by the red exit signs and the ambient light of the city bleeding through the windows. The air smelled of fresh paint and old antiseptic.

“William!” I shouted, my voice echoing down the empty corridor. “I’m here! Let her go!”

A door at the end of the hall clicked open.

A single, glaring construction spotlight clicked on, blinding me for a second.

I raised my arm to shield my eyes. As my vision adjusted, I saw them.

William was standing in the center of a gutted operating room. He was wearing his expensive tuxedo from the gala, holding a suppressed 9mm pistol in his right hand.

Sitting in a wheelchair directly in front of him was June. She looked impossibly frail, an oxygen mask strapped over her face, her eyes wide with terror.

“Right on time, Richard,” William smiled, a grotesque, arrogant expression that made my stomach churn. “You always were incredibly predictable.”

I threw the black leather ledger onto the dusty floor between us.

“There’s the book,” I said, keeping my hands visible. “You’ve won, William. You have the money. You have the company. Let her go.”

William laughed, a dry, humorless sound. He stepped forward and kicked the ledger away.

“I don't care about the copy, Richard. I already burned the original,” William sneered. “I didn't bring you here to trade. I brought you here to tie up loose ends.”

He raised the pistol, aiming it directly at my chest.

“You see, Richard, as long as you and Claire are alive, I will always be looking over my shoulder,” William explained, pacing slowly around June’s wheelchair like a predator. “Tonight, the police will find your body here alongside the nurse. A tragic murder-suicide. Driven mad by grief, the billionaire kills the woman who kidnapped his daughter, and then turns the gun on himself.”

“You’re insane,” I breathed. “The police will never believe that.”

“They will when I provide them with the psychological profile my doctors have been building on you for a decade,” William smiled confidently. “And once you’re out of the way, taking care of Claire and the little brat will be remarkably easy.”

June let out a muffled scream through her oxygen mask, struggling weakly against the restraints tying her to the chair.

“Stop!” I yelled, taking a step forward. “Leave them out of this! This is between you and me!”

William leveled the gun at my head. “It was always between you and me, Richard. You stole my sister. You stole my company. And now, you’re going to die knowing you couldn't save anyone.”

His finger tightened on the trigger.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact.

But the gunshot didn't come from William’s pistol.

A deafening CRACK echoed through the gutted operating room.

William screamed in agony, dropping his weapon as a bullet tore through his right shoulder. He spun around, clutching his bleeding arm, his eyes wide in shock.

I whipped my head toward the doorway.

Standing in the shadows, holding a heavy, snub-nosed revolver with both hands, was Claire.

Her hands were shaking violently, tears streaming down her face, but her dark eyes were blazing with the fierce, protective fury of a mother who had lost everything.

“Get away from my father,” Claire hissed, racking the hammer back for a second shot.

William staggered backward, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. With his uninjured left arm, he suddenly lunged forward, grabbing June’s wheelchair and yanking her violently backward, using the frail woman as a human shield.

He reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a small, silver object.

A scalpel.