Chapter 3 - The Silver Locket
The silenced bullet shattered the plaster just inches from Evelyn’s ear as Dominic tackled her to the floor.
He didn't scramble for cover; he lunged. In one fluid, brutal motion, Dominic swept the translator’s legs out from under him, disarming the man before he hit the tile. A heavy thud, a sharp twist of the wrist, and the translator was unconscious.
Evelyn scrambled backward, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was an auditor, a woman who lived in spreadsheets and ink. Violence was a foreign language she had never wanted to learn.
"Get up," Dominic ordered, slipping the gun into his waistband. He didn't offer his hand this time; they were past the point of chivalry. "We have less than three minutes before Isabella realizes the translator missed his check-in."
"Why did he shoot at me?" Evelyn demanded, struggling to keep pace as Dominic dragged her toward the service stairwell. "I'm just a waitress to them!"
"Because you spilled the champagne," Dominic said grimly. "Isabella isn't stupid. She knows that wasn't an accident. She knows you understood her."
They burst into the second-floor security control room. Evelyn expected to see heavily armed guards monitoring the screens. Instead, the room was empty. The chief of security was slumped over his console, a half-empty cup of coffee beside him. He was breathing, but deeply unconscious.
"Drugged," Dominic muttered, checking the man’s pulse. "Isabella’s work."
Evelyn moved to the glowing monitors. She wasn't looking at the camera feeds; she was looking at the secondary terminal, the one connected to the estate’s private servers. She quickly typed in a string of commands.
"What are you doing?" Dominic asked, scanning the hallway outside.
"I need to know where the money went. Isabella said the offshore accounts were emptied. I know the routing numbers my father set up for yours." Her fingers flew across the keyboard.
A complex ledger filled the screen. Evelyn’s breath hitched.
"Dominic," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The money wasn't stolen by your Uncle Marcus."
"What?" Dominic spun around. "Isabella and Marcus are working together. They have to be."
"No," Evelyn pointed to the screen. "Look at the destination routing. Marcus didn't take the money. Isabella took it. And she didn't send it to a Cayman account. She transferred eighty million dollars into an account under Uncle Marcus's name."
Dominic stared at the screen, the pieces falling into a horrifying picture. "She’s not partnering with him. She’s framing him. She’s going to kill me, kill Marcus, and make it look like a murder-suicide over stolen funds."
A soft, mocking clap echoed from the doorway.
Evelyn froze. Isabella stood there, her elegant gown swapped for a sleek tactical jacket over her evening wear. In her hand was a heavy, silver locket. Evelyn recognized it instantly—it was the locket her father had worn the day he died.
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"You always were quick with numbers, little Vance," Isabella smiled, stepping into the room. "But you're too late."
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