I thought about Lance, tied up somewhere on that yacht, probably blaming himself for everything. Probably thinking he needed to handle this alone.

  Wrong, husband. We’re not in this alone.

  Hector stepped forward. “If we’re doing this, we need to move fast.”

  Hold on, Lance. I’m coming.

  “Silas,” I said, turning to face the man who’d been Lance’s only link to his past life. “I need a refresher on how to kill someone. Efficiently.”

  The smile that spread across his face was sharp enough to cut glass. “With pleasure, Mrs. Lakewood.”

  Lance

  * * *

  I woke up to the sound of rotors. But stationary.

  * * *

  My head felt like someone had used it for batting practice, and my mouth tasted like I'd been gargling with battery acid. The tranquilizer Amber had used was wearing off, leaving me groggy but functional.

  Functional enough to be thoroughly pissed off.

  I was zip-tied to a chair in what looked like a bedroom. Mahogany paneling, crystal decanters, the kind of understated luxury that screamed old money. Through the window to my left, I could see the ocean and a helipad.

  "Awake, I see."

  The voice made my blood turn to ice. I knew that voice. Had heard it in my nightmares for years.

  My grandfather stepped into view, looking exactly like the monster from my childhood memories. Silver hair perfectly styled, expensive suit tailored to perfection, eyes like chips of blue ice. He'd aged, but the aura of controlled menace remained unchanged.

  "Grandfather." I kept my voice level, casual. Like being kidnapped by family was just another Tuesday. "A little dramatic, aren’t you?”

  His smile was thin as a blade. "Still the smart mouth. I see some things never change."

  Some things. Others change completely.

  I tested the zip ties binding my wrists.

  "Where's Amber?" I asked, scanning the room for threats.

  "Your aunt is handling other arrangements." My grandfather moved to the bar, pouring himself two fingers of what looked like very expensive scotch. "Would you care for a drink? I imagine you have questions."

  "How long have you been planning this?"

  My grandfather smiled, and his expression was genuinely pleased. Like I was finally asking the right questions.

  "Since the moment you walked away," he said. "Did you really think I'd let you go so easily? You're my legacy, Lance. My greatest creation. You almost had me with that explosion. But that little business with the mugger. I know your handiwork. And we can’t prove it, but my people have a possible sighting of you and your wife on a motor cycle. But really what did you in was CCTV cameras at Federal Bank around Pendragon. Your profile was caught in the back of a car going into the Pendragon office underground executive lot. You should have known better. I’m disappointed."

  "I made my choice ten years ago," I said. "I'm not coming back."

  "Ah, but you already have." Charles gestured around the cabin with his glass. "You're here, aren't you? Just like I knew you would be."

  "You could have asked nicely."

  My grandfather laughed, the sound genuinely amused. "Would that have worked?"

  “I would have told you to go fuck yourself. So what happens now?" I asked. “Lock me in the basement until I agree to play heir again?"

  "Nothing so crude." My grandfather settled into the chair across from me, studying my face like he was memorizing it. "I simply want to remind you who you are. Who you've always been."

  "I'm Lance Lakewood," I said firmly. "Husband to Morgan. Brother to the people who chose to be my family."

  "No." My grandfather leaned forward, his eyes burning with that familiar intensity. "You're Lance DuLac. My grandson. My heir. The French Devil."

  The name hit like a physical blow. I hadn't heard it in years, had hoped I'd never hear it again.

  "The French Devil is dead," I said quietly.

  "Is he?" My grandfather smiled. "Then how do you explain what you planned for Samuel? What did you plan to do to that man for daring to touch what's yours? What did you do to Morgan’s father?"

  How does he know about that?

  "The beast is still there, just barely leashed. All it needs is the right... motivation."

  Something cold slithered down my spine. "What kind of motivation?"

  My grandfather's smile widened. "The kind that involves your lovely wife and a very sharp knife."

  “Touch her, and I'll rip your throat out with my bare hands.”

  "There he is," he said softly. "There's my boy. The man who would burn the world down for the woman he loves."

  You don't know shit about love.

  "Morgan has nothing to do with this," I said through clenched teeth.

  "Doesn't she?" My grandfather returned to his chair, settling back with the confidence of a man holding all the cards. "She's the reason you're here, after all. The reason you'll do exactly what I ask."

  But even as I thought it, I knew he was right. If he threatened Morgan—really threatened her—there wasn't anything I wouldn't do to keep her safe.

  Including becoming the monster he'd created.

  "What do you want?" I asked again.

  "I want my grandson back," my grandfather said. "I want the French Devil to take his rightful place at my side. And I want the files. Specifically where your mother put my money."

  "And in exchange?"

  "Your wife lives. Your chosen family remains safe. Simple."

  But I could see the trap closing around me. The careful orchestration of everything that had led to this moment. Amber's months-long infiltration. The attack at the co-op. The systematic targeting of everyone I cared about.

  My grandfather stood, moving toward the cabin door. "I'll give you time to think about it. But not too much time. After all, she’ll be here soon.”

  What?

  "It seems your friends will be joining us shortly. Whether she arrives breathing or not depends entirely on your cooperation."

  The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the sound of waves and the taste of my own rage.

  I tested the zip ties again, harder this time, feeling the plastic bite into my wrists. Blood welled, making the restraints slick, but they held.

  I just prayed Atticus followed the instructions I left.

  Lance

  Pain was my old friend.

  Had been since I was seven, and my grandfather decided I needed toughening up. Broken bones. Split lips. Blood on concrete floors. I'd learned early that pain was just information—a data point to catalog and compartmentalize so it couldn't break you.

  But this?

  This was different.

  Amber had creativity. The psychotic bitch had been working on me for hours, thorough and professional. The zip ties cut into my wrists like razor wire, arms pulled back, shoulders screaming. My shirt hung in tatters, a canvas of precisely placed cuts that hurt like hell without hitting anything vital.

  "Still nothing to say?" she asked cheerfully, wiping blood off a small knife with delicate precision. “All you have to do is swear allegiance. Take the oath. Give it all up and come home. Easy.”

  I spat blood onto the concrete floor. "Go fuck yourself."

  Same answer I'd been giving for hours. The warehouse was classic grandfather special—isolated, soundproof, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps.

  The Lance who'd walked away twelve years ago wouldn't have lasted an hour under Amber's careful attention. Would've broken like glass the moment she started asking questions.

  This Lance? The one who'd found something worth protecting?

  This Lance could take whatever they dished out.

  For Morgan. For the team. For the chance to watch grandfather burn.

  "You know," Amber said conversationally, selecting a new instrument, "when I first met Morgan, I thought she was just another pretty rich girl playing at being artsy. But then I got to know her better. She really trusted me, you know. Told me everything. About your marriage. About how much she loved you. About how devastated she was when you died."

  My hands clenched involuntarily, restraints cutting deeper.

  The guilt was a knife between my ribs, sharper than anything Amber could do with her toys. Morgan's tears. Her broken voice at my funeral. The way she'd looked like a ghost of herself when I'd seen her through security footage.

  "She used to cry," Amber continued, testing the edge of what looked like a scalpel. "Late at night, when she thought no one could hear. Sometimes she'd talk to your picture like you were still there. Tell you about her day, about how much she missed you."

  I jerked against the restraints hard enough to feel something tear in my shoulder. "Don't fucking talk about her."

  "Oh, touched a nerve, did I?" Amber's laugh was like broken glass. "Don't worry, Lancelot. I took very good care of your precious wife. Made sure she had a shoulder to cry on. A friend to confide in."

  "A year," I said, letting her hear the ice in my voice. "You spent a year lying to her."

  "I've been watching her since she started at the co-op. Grandfather wanted intelligence on anyone in Atticus's orbit." She shrugged, completely casual about years of deception. "Lucky for me, Morgan was so starved for female friendship that she made it easy."

  And then Amber had taken advantage of that. Had seen Morgan's desperate need for connection and used it as a weapon.

  "But enough about your wife," Amber said brightly, moving behind me. "Let's talk about you. Specifically, about why you're being so stubborn. Give us what we want, it’s very simple."

  She moved around behind me, and I felt the knife trail across the back of my neck. Not cutting. Just reminding me it was there.

  "Come now, Lance," grandfather's voice drifted from the shadows where he'd been watching. He stepped into the light. "Surely we can reach an understanding. Swear in blood, your loyalty to me, and all is forgiven. You can come home where you belong. And bring with you that which belons to me.”

  I turned my head toward his voice, feeling the pull of fresh cuts across my shoulders.

  "Here's my understanding," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the blood pooling in my mouth. "You're a dead man walking. And when my team gets here—because they're coming, old man—I'm going to let them take their time with you."

  Grandfather chuckled. "Your team? You mean the same people who couldn't prevent you from being taken in the first place? Tell me, Lancelot, do you think they know where you are? This compound has been in the family for generations. Hidden in plain sight among Marseille's industrial district." He leaned down to peer at me directly. "Where are the files?"

  But the bastard didn't know the whole story. Didn't know that I'd gone off script, decided to handle things alone like the arrogant asshole I apparently still was.

  Marseille. Of course. The city where my mother died. Where she'd been gathering evidence against him before he had her killed.

  "Sentimental of you," I said. "Bringing me to the scene of the crime."

  His expression darkened. "Your mother's death was unfortunate but necessary. She left me no choice."

  The clinical way he discussed murdering his own daughter-in-law made my vision blur with rage.

  "She was gathering evidence," I said, spitting more blood. "Building a case against you."

  "She was documenting family business that wasn't her concern." Grandfather waved a hand dismissively. "Operations she didn't understand, couldn't comprehend. Christiane was brilliant in many ways, but she lacked the stomach for necessary work."

  "Like the weapons deals you've been running through Eastern Europe," I said, watching his face for tells. "Like the prostitution rings in Southeast Asia. Like the arms sales to terrorist organizations."

  His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Still, after all these years, I could read him like a book.

  "Your mother had no context for those operations. She saw only surface details, made assumptions based on incomplete information."

  "So you had her killed? One thing was sacrosanct. One thing. You have no honor."

  "Time you learned. There is no honor among assassins. I eliminated a threat to the business." His voice carried no emotion, no regret. "As I've eliminated many threats over the years. The way I taught you to."

  A memory jarred me. at warehouse when I was seventeen. The hooded figure in the chair. Grandfather's voice, calm and patient: "Your training is over. One more test."

  I'd pulled the trigger. I always did, in the nightmare that haunted my sleep.

  “You want my compliance so badly? You can have it. I will come back. Pledge my allegiance to you once again.”

  Amber perked up like a predator scenting blood. "Just like that?"

  Grandfather raised a hand, silencing her. His eyes never left mine, calculating and sharp. "Go on."

  I let the silence stretch, savoring the moment. Let them lean in.

  "All I ask is, you sincerely go and fuck yourself," I muttered. “You’re never getting that money.”

  Amber's backhand snapped my head to the side, stars exploding across my vision.

  "You think this is a game?" she snarled. "You think we won't escalate this?"

  I grinned through the blood. "I think you're running out of time. You need me to find your money. Once my uncles find out what you’ve done. They are coming for you. If Hector and I plead your case, they might go easy on you."

  “You think you have me. You don’t. You haven’t called a council. Once they find out what your mother was going to do, they’ll see things my way. Then all of this will have been for nothing. End this now. If you do. I’ll even spare your precious wife. Come home Devil.”

  I yanked against my restraints. “Council or not old man, you’ve gone too far.” I hoped I was right about that. The plan was, if I was taken, they were immediately to get the files to my uncles. Grandad was right. They’d careless about the murder of my mother, but they’d certainly feel some way about him stealing from them.

  That part was all due to Gwen’s genius. Those details had been buried deep. But her software had ferreted out the info. Now I just had to wait.

  If you live that long.

  Grandfather began pacing, his calm facade cracking. "You're stalling."

  "I'm enjoying myself," I said, which was partially true. The pain was manageable. The psychological games were familiar. And knowing that my team was out there, that Morgan was safe while they handled this?

  Well. Assuming Morgan is safe. Knowing my wife, she probably demanded to come along.

  "Your mother thought she was so clever," grandfather said, stopping his pacing to stare at me. "Hiding evidence, making contingency plans. She had no idea that I was watching her every move. But she underestimated one crucial factor." His smile was cold, predatory. "She underestimated how far I'd go to protect this family's legacy."

  "What legacy?" I asked. "Murder? Torture? Trafficking in human misery? You’re only n this to protect yourself."

  "Power," he said simply. "Control. The ability to shape the world according to our will rather than being shaped by it. Our family has survived for generations because we understand that violence is a tool, not an emotion."

  "Mom mattered," I said quietly. "Hector and I mattered. But not enough to stop you from destroying everything she tried to build."

  Something flickered across his face—pain, maybe, or the ghost of regret. But it was gone so quickly, I might have imagined it.

  "Your mother was weak," he said finally. "And weakness is contagious. I couldn't allow her to infect you boys with her sentimentality."

  "So you had her murdered."

  "I removed an obstacle." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Just as I'll remove your wife and those people you call your family if you continue to be stubborn about this. You come home, work for me. Settle this mess with your uncles. One big happy family."

  I wasn't the teenager he could manipulate or break. I'd found something bigger than fear, stronger than self-preservation. I'd found people worth dying for.

  Amber had been suspiciously quiet during our little family reunion, but now she moved back into my line of sight. Her expression had changed—less manic glee, more focused intensity.

  "Father," she said, her voice taking on a professional tone. "We're running out of time. If his team is really out there⁠—"

  "Then we escalate," grandfather said calmly. "Find the pressure point that will break him. Find the girl, bring her to me. I’ll kill her in front of him."

  That was the only pressure point that could touch me. The realization hit like ice water. If they got Morgan, if they could hurt her while making me watch⁠—

  They don't have her. She's with the team. She's safe.

  But doubt crept in anyway, cold and poisonous. Because this was my grandfather, and he didn't make threats he couldn't follow through on.

  "Ah," he said, reading my face like an open book. "There it is. The fear you've been hiding."

  "Your precious wife is quite beautiful," he continued conversationally. "Such lovely skin. Those pretty brown eyes. I can see why you'd want to protect her. Maybe I should see for myself why you want her so badly. Like I did with your mother?"

  My hands clenched involuntarily, zip ties cutting deeper. "I’ll kill you."

  "Don't what? Don't mention how soft her voice is? How she smells like lime and coconut? How she looked in that green dress at Atticus's party?"

  He's been watching her. For how long?

  "I know more about your wife than you think, Lance. I know she works late at that little co-op. I know she walks alone sometimes, despite all your careful security arrangements. I know she trusts too easily."

  “Fuck you.”

  "I know," he continued, his voice dropping to that silky tone that had given me nightmares as a child, "exactly how to break her. Now be good and tell me where my money is."

  The rage that flooded my system was volcanic. Pure, undiluted fury that made every other emotion pale in comparison. The zip ties strained as every muscle in my body coiled for violence.