The mockery in her voice, the way she twisted our friendship into something ugly, snapped the last of my control.

  Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck being a victim.

  I lunged for the fabric shears on the cutting table, but Amber was faster. She grabbed my wrist, twisting until I dropped it, then shoved me back against the wall.

  "I don't think so, sweetheart."

  But the training Lance, Micah and Pierce had drilled into me was automatic now. Step left. Use her momentum. Break the grip.

  I twisted out of her hold and drove my knee up toward her stomach. She deflected, but it threw her off balance. I scrambled for my bag, fingers finding the panic button.

  I pressed it hard just as Amber tackled me to the ground.

  We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, the impact driving the air from my lungs. She was stronger than I'd expected, and clearly trained, but I'd spent weeks learning to fight dirty.

  I got one arm free and clawed at her face, my nails drawing blood. She cursed, rearing back, and I used the space to drive my elbow into her ribs.

  "You little bitch," she snarled, raising the knife.

  I rolled left just as the blade came down, scoring across my shoulder instead of finding something vital. Pain flared, bright and sharp, but adrenaline kept me moving.

  My hands found the fabric shears I'd dropped. I swung them wildly, more desperate than skilled, but the blade caught her across the forearm. Blood splattered across my cutting table.

  "Fuck!" Amber stumbled back, clutching her arm.

  I scrambled to my feet, shears in one hand, the other pressed against the burning line of pain across my shoulder. My face was already swelling where she'd hit me—I could taste blood in my mouth.

  "Alex!" I screamed, hoping my voice would carry to the street. "Alex, help!"

  Amber laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Your little bodyguard can't hear you. This room is soundproofed, remember? For the pottery wheels."

  Shit. She was right.

  But the panic button. Lance would have gotten the alert by now. Help was coming.

  I just had to survive until then.

  Amber circled me again, blood dripping from her arm, but her movements still controlled, professional. "You know what the best part was? How grateful you were for my friendship. How desperate you were for someone to understand your pain."

  She feinted left, and I swung the shears, but she'd already moved right. The knife sliced across my forearm this time—not deep, but enough to make me gasp.

  "I actually felt sorry for you at first. Such a pathetic little widow, clinging to her dead husband's memory." Her voice dripped with false sympathy. "But then I realized how perfect you were. So isolated. So needy. So easy to manipulate."

  Keep her talking. Tire her out. Wait for backup.

  "Was any of it real?" I managed, dodging another swipe of her knife. "Our friendship?”

  "You were always the mark." She pressed her attack, forcing me back toward the wall.

  My back hit the wall. Nowhere left to retreat.

  "Charles has had people watching you for over a year. It’s Hector’s fault, really. When he found his brother, he should have done the right thing and told the family. I was the one who got the fun job of playing bestie and pretending to care about your little seamstress hobby."

  The knife came up toward my throat, but I was ready this time. I grabbed her wrist with both hands, using the shears to block, then drove my knee up into her stomach.

  She doubled over, gasping, and I broke free. But instead of running, I spun back around and hit her across the face with the blunt end of the shears.

  The impact sent her staggering, blood streaming from her nose. "You fucking⁠—"

  The door burst open.

  "Morgan!"

  Alex rushed in, weapon drawn, taking in the scene in seconds. But Amber was ready for him. She dove behind a cutting table just as Alex fired, the bullet splintering wood where her head had been.

  "Stay down!" Alex shouted at me, moving deeper into the room with tactical precision.

  But Amber was already gone. She'd rolled behind the industrial sewing machines and out of sight. I could hear her moving, fast and fluid, through the shadows of the storage area.

  Another gunshot. Then the crash of something heavy hitting the floor.

  "Alex!" I screamed.

  Silence.

  My pulse hammered in my ears as I crept toward where Alex had disappeared. I found him unconscious behind an overturned table, blood trickling from his temple where something had struck him. Still breathing, but out cold.

  "Morgan!" Amber's voice echoed from somewhere near the exit. "Give Lance a message for me. Tell him Charles is waiting. Tell him it's time to come home."

  I heard the back exit slam shut, the sound echoing through the empty studio like a gunshot.

  She was gone.

  I knelt beside Alex, checking his pulse with shaking hands. Strong and steady. The bleeding looked worse than it was—head wounds always bled like hell.

  My phone. I needed to call for help.

  But when I reached for my bag, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip the panic button. I pressed it anyway, knowing Lance would get the alert.

  Then I called 911, my voice surprisingly steady as I reported an assault and requested paramedics.

  It wasn't until I was giving my statement to the police twenty minutes later, Alex conscious but groggy beside me on a stretcher. We could have both died today. All because of her.

  "Ma'am?" The detective was looking at me with concern. "You said the attacker knew you personally?"

  I touched the bruise forming on my cheek, tasted blood from where she'd split my lip. "She's been pretending to be my friend for months."

  Pathetic. That's what she'd called me. Ordinary.

  Maybe she was right about that.

  But pathetic or not, I was going to make sure Lance knew what was coming for him. And when this was over, when Charles DuLac was no longer a threat to anyone I loved, I was going to find Amber and return the favor.

  Lance

  I couldn't stop pacing.

  The penthouse's hardwood floors were going to have permanent wear marks from my boots at this rate, but I couldn't sit still. Not with Morgan's words echoing in my head like a fucking war drum.

  "Tell him Charles is waiting. Tell him it's time to come home."

  Amber's message. Delivered through my wife like a goddamn calling card.

  Morgan was down the hall, finally sleeping after the medics had cleared her of any serious injuries. A few stitches for the cuts, pain meds for the bruises, but she'd be fine.

  Physically.

  Emotionally? That was another story.

  The betrayal had gutted her. I could see it in her eyes—the way she kept replaying every conversation with Amber, looking for signs she'd missed. Questioning every moment of friendship that had apparently been a lie from the start.

  My grandfather had planned this. From the beginning, before I’d ever given in to my feelings for Morgan, he’d been one step ahead, trying to drag me back home.

  It had started nearly three years ago when he’d put funds in my trust fund to see if I’d take the bait. Had he always known where I was? For the last several months, I’d been carefully hiding. But had he known? Had we made a mistake somewhere?

  Well, he knows now, so roll with it or someone is going to die.

  The fact that he’d planted Amber in Morgan's life was what was most terrifying. We hadn’t even done a cursory look at her. Because Morgan hadn’t been the target. I'd let this happen. I'd been so focused on external threats that I'd missed the enemy living in our inner circle.

  The worst part? I couldn't even kill the bitch for what she'd done. She was gone. Vanished like fucking smoke.

  But she'd left her message crystal clear: My Grandfather was done playing games.

  My phone buzzed for the tenth time in the past hour. Atticus again.

  Atticus: Team meeting in an hour. We need to plan our next move.

  I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen.

  Gwen had a newborn. Atticus had a family to protect.

  I knew what needed to be done.

  The decision crystallized in my mind like ice forming on glass. Clean. Sharp. Final.

  I pulled up my contacts and found the number I'd been avoiding for weeks.

  Me: We need to talk. Just you and me.

  The response came back immediately, like he'd been waiting.

  Old Man: About time. The place at the pier. One hour. Come alone.

  He used to take me there when I was a kid. Buy me ice-cream and tell me my father had been a great soldier. That one day I'd be just like him.

  I moved through the penthouse quietly, gathering what I needed. My Glock went into the shoulder holster. Backup piece in the ankle holster. The knife Silas had given me was tucked against my spine. If this was going to be my last stand, I wasn't going down easy.

  Then I did the most difficult thing I'd ever done in my life.

  I put in the SOS call.

  The old me would have gone in alone.

  The old me who had no one.

  Did I want Morgan or Gwen near any of this? Absolutely not. But they were part of the team.

  My call to Atticus was brief. I told him what was happening and left instructions about what to tell Hector and Silas, and the team. I'd have a bit of a head start to let the old man think I was coming alone. But my family would be right behind me.

  Then I grabbed my kit from the storage in the foyer. I grabbed one of the sticky tracking tabs and peeled off one to stick on the heel of my foot. I had no doubt the old man would move me. He would drug me to do it. And I'd be searched.

  But the place least likely to be searched...the bottom of the feet. Gwen could track me easily with this. Even if the old man took me overseas, it would be a little more difficult. But these trackers had been created by Matthias Weller at Blake Security, and they were trackable by satellite.

  The cab dropped me three blocks from the pier.

  Old habits. Always approach a meeting from an unexpected angle, always leave yourself an exit route. My grandfather's training had been thorough, even if I'd spent years trying to forget it.

  The night air carried the familiar scent of salt in the air. Manhattan stretched behind me, glittering and oblivious to the family drama playing out in its shadows.

  Pier 47 looked exactly like it had fifteen years ago. Same weathered planks, same rusty railings, same view of the Hudson River stretching into darkness. The only difference was the luxury yacht moored at the end—sleek, white, probably worth more than most people made in a lifetime.

  Of course grandfather would make a statement. Subtlety had never been his strong suit.

  I spotted Amber before she saw me, leaning against the railing like she was just enjoying the night air. She looked different now—harder, more focused. The bubbly friend Morgan had known was gone, replaced by the operative she'd always been.

  "Hello, Lance."

  I stepped into the light, hands visible, moving with the casual confidence that suggested I wasn't armed to the teeth. "Amber. Or should I call you Sophie?"She turned, and her smile was all predator. "I prefer Sophie, actually. Nephew," she said with a smirk.

  I ignored her.

  "Wasn't sure you'd come," she said, pushing off from the railing. "Thought you might ignore instructions and bring your little team."

  "This is between family." I stopped just outside arm's reach, close enough to seem non-threatening, far enough to react if she tried something stupid. "What does the old man want?"

  "You know what he wants." Her voice carried that cold edge I'd never heard when she was playing Morgan's friend. "He wants you back. He wants the prodigal grandson to stop playing house with civilians and remember who he really is."

  "And if I refuse?"

  She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "He'll keep taking pieces of your new life until you comply. Starting with the pretty little wife."

  The casual way she said it—like Morgan was just another pawn on grandfather's chess board—made violence spark through my veins. My hands flexed, muscle memory itching for the familiar weight of weapons.

  Easy. She wants you angry. Angry people make mistakes.

  "Morgan's off limits," I said quietly. "We both know family law."

  "Family law protects family members," she corrected. "Last I checked, you abandoned the family name ten years ago. Which makes her fair game."

  "So what's the play here?" I asked, shifting my weight slightly, preparing for violence. "You drag me back to France? Force me to kiss the ring?"

  "Nothing so dramatic." She stepped closer, and I could see the calculation in her eyes. "Just a conversation. Grandfather to grandson. The way it should have been years ago."

  "I'm not a scared kid anymore," I said flatly.

  "No," she agreed. "You're not.”

  “My mother died trying to expose the old man.”

  "According to who?" She shook her head. "You know nothing."

  She doesn't know about the ring. She doesn't know what we found.

  She moved faster than I expected, the tranquilizer dart hitting my neck before I could dodge. My hand went to the injection site automatically, but the damage was already done.

  Shit.

  The world tilted sideways. I managed to stay on my feet for a few more seconds, long enough to see her pull out a phone.

  "I've got him," she said to whoever was on the other end. "Bring the boat around."

  My knees hit the dock. Hard. The last thing I saw before everything went black was Amber's satisfied smile.

  Morgan

  * * *

  "Where the hell is he?"

  * * *

  Fear and worry clawed at me, sharp and relentless, while my heart pounded so fiercely it felt like the sound echoed in the room. Surely, they could all hear it—this frantic rhythm of dread. I was pacing Atticus and Gwen's living room like a caged animal, my phone clutched in one hand, Alex hovering near the door with professional concern written all over his face.

  * * *

  Lance had been gone for hours. We knew he’d be taken. But we expected to be able to track him. But hours and nothing.

  * * *

  Hours since he'd called Atticus with the plan. Hours since the tracking device had shown him heading to Pier 47. hours since the signal had gone dark.

  The bit in my stomach was reaching black hole proportions with worry growing it exponentially.

  I was determined to tread a path in the hardwood floor when Gwen called from the dining room. “Tracker’s up!”

  I ran to her. “Where is he?”

  "The tracker came back online, and is moving fast." Gwen said from her position at the laptop, Ava sleeping peacefully in a bassinet beside her. "He's heading east. Speed suggests open ocean. But there is no way…" Her voice trailed for a moment. “Baby, can you come look at this? This can’t be right.”

  Atticus went to her side, pausing to stroke a sleeping Ava’s cheek before peering over Gwen’s shoulder. He frowned and shook his head before staring at Hector. “Would your grandfather seriously take Lance to France via helicopter?”

  Hector, at his semi-permanent spot by the windows, snorted. “Yes. He’s done it before. When he wanted to make sure he couldn’t be tracked. It’s expensive, and the logistics are fucked, but possible.” He shook his head. “He wanted to make sure we didn’t follow easily.”

  A helicopter…To France. He was taking Lance to France over the Atlantic.

  My hands clenched into fists. "Can we intercept?"

  "No," Pierce said grimly. He and Gavin had arrived twenty minutes ago, both armed and ready for whatever came next. "We’ll have to go the old-fashioned way."

  "Okay, fine. We get on a plane, we fly to France, and we bring him home. When do we leave?"

  "It's not that simple," Gavin started.

  "Actually, it is." I pulled up the photos on my phone—the ones Pierce had sent me weeks ago. Security layouts of my grandfather-in-law's compound in Marseille. Guard rotations. Weak points in the perimeter. "You've been planning for this possibility since Lance came back. You have the intel. You have the team. And I’m not losing him again."

  Atticus pressed his lips together. “Not all of us can go, Morgan,” he said gently.

  “You can stay if you want, Atticus. But Charles took something that belongs to me. And I'm going to make him regret it."

  Atticus studied me for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, he nodded. "Okay."

  "Okay?" Was it that simple?

  "You're right. We’ve got variations of contingencies. But we’re not flying off half-cocked. Lance left some instructions. I just hope he’s in a position to do his part when we get there.”

  “Asshole shouldn’t have gone alone,” groused Hector.

  Gwen tried to offer some hope. “The old Lance wouldn’t have told us shit. So I’ll take this progress.”

  "Jet is already fueling," Gavin said.

  "Pierce, coordinate with your contacts in France. Gwen, I need everything you have on that compound—blueprints, guard schedules, security systems. If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

  "What about me?" I asked.

  Atticus paused in the doorway, his expression serious. "Morgan, you follow orders. No heroics, no improvisation. Lance would never forgive me if something happened to you."

  The knot in my belly loosened. “Deal.”

  As everyone scattered to prepare, I caught Silas watching me from his position by the windows. He’d been silent throughout the entire exchange, but his eyes held understanding.

  “You know what you’re walking into,” he said quietly.

  It wasn’t a question.

  “I know,” I said. “And I’m going anyway.”

  “Good.” His smile was sharp as broken glass. “Because that old bastard needs to learn what happens when you fuck with this family.”