SHE TOOK A BULLET FOR THE MAN EVERYONE FEARED, THEN WHISPERED THREE WORDS THAT BROKE HIS EMPIRE

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a breathtaking labyrinth of marble statues, vaulted ceilings, and glittering chandeliers. Classical string quartets played softly from the balconies, while New York’s elite sipped champagne under the glow of priceless antiquities.

Kendra glided through the crowd with the effortless grace she had once used to serve tables at Hawthorne House, only now her invisibility was a weapon. Dressed in her midnight-blue silk pantsuit, with her hair swept back into a sleek chignon, she looked every bit the high-society heiress. Her earpiece was practically invisible against her skin, hidden beneath a cascade of dark hair.

“Left corridor, Kendra,” Damon’s voice murmured softly in her ear, steady and low, anchoring her amidst the glittering chaos. “Two security guards are stationed by the service elevator. Take the east stairwell.”

Kendra shifted her weight, pivoting smoothly toward the arched stone hallway. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands were steady. She reached the heavy oak service door, slipped a custom bypass card—provided by Damon’s tech team—into the electronic lock, and heard the satisfying click of the latch releasing.

She slipped inside, ascending the concrete stairs two at a time until she reached the third-floor administrative wing.

“You’re entering Vance’s administrative zone,” Damon’s voice continued, a comforting, omniscient presence in her mind. “Camera three is on a twelve-second rotation. When I say move, cross the hallway to the double mahogany doors.”

Kendra pressed her back against the cool plaster wall, watching the tiny red blinking light of the surveillance dome overhead.

“Now.”

She pushed off the wall, moving with the silent, fluid grace Marcus had drilled into her, slipping through Vance’s private office doors just as the camera swung back.

The office was dark, illuminated only by the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. On the massive mahogany desk sat Vance’s primary mainframe terminal, its screen glowing with security firewalls.

Kendra didn't hesitate. She crossed the room, pulled the titanium flash drive from her pocket, and slotted it into the USB port. Instantly, a cascade of green code scrolled across the screen as Damon’s remote script began downloading Vance’s entire financial history, asset portfolios, and illegal shipping routes.

“Download at forty percent,” Damon muttered in her ear. “Keep your eyes on the door. Vance just left the ballroom.”

Footsteps echoed softly in the hallway outside. Heavy, deliberate, approaching fast.

Kendra’s breath caught. She glanced at the screen: Eighty-five percent... Ninety percent...