Chapter 7
We moved through the west gallery like phantoms.
The Kane mansion was an echoing maze of limestone arches and dark wood. From the lower levels, the faint sounds of a string quartet playing Mozart drifted up, mixed with the muted clinking of champagne flutes and the hum of high-society conversation. Thirty elite power brokers were downstairs sipping vintage Dom Pérignon, completely oblivious to the blood pooling on the third-floor rug.
Adrian moved at the point, his handgun held low against his thigh, clearing every corner with the lethal precision of a trained operative.
"How do you know how to fight like that?" I whispered as we slipped past the portrait gallery.
"Before Kane Global became a tech conglomerate, it was a maritime security contractor," Adrian muttered without turning his head. "I spent five years in the Gulf of Aden before I ever sat in a boardroom. Julian was always the politician. I was the hammer."
We reached the mezzanine landing overlooking the double-curved grand staircase.
Below us, the grand foyer opened into the crystal-lit ballroom. Women in couture evening gowns and men in tailored black tuxedos milled around mahogany high-tops. At the far end of the ballroom stood a raised dais with a podium bearing the Kane Global crest.
And standing beside the podium was Julian Kane.
Julian had smoothed his hair and straightened his tuxedo jacket, but his face was slick with sweat. He was whispering urgently into the ear of a burly man with a silver crew cut—Captain Thomas Vance, the private head of security for the estate, and no relation to me, though I knew his reputation. Vance was a hired butcher.
Julian tapped the microphone on the podium. The sharp feedback silenced the string quartet. The thirty guests turned, glasses in hand, smiling expectantly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed members of the council," Julian's amplified voice boomed across the ballroom, smooth and mournful. "Thank you for joining us on this solemn evening. As you know, tonight marks the third anniversary of the tragic passing of my beloved sister-in-law, Evelyn."
A collective murmur of polite sympathy rippled through the crowd.
"For three years," Julian continued, clutching the edges of the podium, his voice thick with rehearsed emotion, "my brother Adrian has suffered unimaginable psychological torment. Tonight, it is with a heavy heart that I must announce that Adrian’s mental state has deteriorated to a critical juncture. Under the advice of medical professionals, he has officially stepped down, transferring full executive authority of Kane Global to me."
"He's lying!" I whispered fiercely.
"Let him dig the grave," Adrian said softly.
"Furthermore," Julian said, his eyes scanning the security team stationed at the ballroom exits, "due to a sudden medical emergency upstairs, our security team will be escorting you all to the south terrace for dessert. Please exit calmly—"
*BANG.*
Adrian fired a single round into the antique plaster ceiling above the mezzanine.
The chandelier shivered. Plaster dust rained down on the grand staircase.
Women shrieked. Glasses shattered on marble floors. The room erupted into frantic confusion as the guests ducked, scrambling away from the center of the foyer.
Adrian Kane stepped out onto the top of the grand staircase.
He looked like an avenging titan. His dark hair was wild, his black shirt unbuttoned at the throat, a smudge of dried blood across his high cheekbone, the smoking handgun gripped loosely in his right hand.
And beside him stood me, holding Nora against my hip.
The silence that fell over the ballroom was total.
"Adrian?" gasped an elderly man in the front row—Henri Laurent, the French logistics magnate. "Mon dieu... he's alive."
Adrian didn't look at Laurent. His eyes were locked entirely on his brother Julian.
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"Step away from the podium, Julian," Adrian’s voice cut through the cavernous foyer without the need for a microphone, booming with terrifying authority. "You're giving a eulogy for a crime you committed."
***
