Chapter 26

The Cross estate wore moonlight like a shroud.

Evelyn had not seen the gates in seven years—not since the night Victor's smile followed her down this drive while packed bags waited in a car that smelled like her mother's perfume and panic.

The ironwork was the same.

The oaks were taller.

The house loomed white and cruel at the hill's crest, windows bright with party light because Victor still entertained even while federal agents circled his companies like sharks.

"He's performing normalcy," Damon said beside her in the armored SUV.

"He's baiting me," Evelyn answered.

She wore black again—not silk this time, but trousers and a coat that moved like shadow, father's signet ring on her right hand, pistol at her back.

Damon had wanted ten men on the perimeter.

Eleanor had wanted twenty.

Evelyn had wanted one truth: Victor Mercer in a room without exits.

They compromised on twelve Blackwood operators, Marcus on sniper overwatch, Sienna in a command van with lawyers on speakerphone and fury in her eyes.

"Last chance to turn around," Damon murmured.

Evelyn looked at the house where she'd learned piano and hid bruises under long sleeves the summer Victor's "lessons" began.

"Last chance was seven years ago."

She opened the door and walked up the drive.

---

The party was obscene.

Champagne. Laughter. Orchestra playing something bright and mindless while the world burned.

Victor stood at the top of the stairs in immaculate white tie, hosting as if headlines weren't screaming his name.

When he saw Evelyn, the orchestra didn't stop.

His smile did.

"Niece," he said, loud enough for the crowd. "You've come home."

"I've come to evict you."

Murmurs.

Phones rising.

Victor descended one step.

"You look tired. Running does that."

"I stopped running." She reached the bottom stair, eyes level with his. "Give me the house keys. The server room. The vault. Or the FBI opens your study in front of these guests."

"You bluff."

She held up her phone.

Live feed from Sienna's van: agents three minutes out, warrant in hand, courtesy of manifest stolen at the airfield.

Victor's smile thinned.

"Inside," he said softly. "Family business."

"Gladly."

Damon moved with her.

Victor's security blocked him.

"Alone," Victor said. "Or I call Leon to start cutting your friend Sienna into pieces that won't fit a warrant."

Evelyn's blood went cold.

Damon's hand twitched toward his weapon.

She caught his wrist.

"Wait in the hall," she said.

"Evelyn—"

"Trust me." She met his eyes. "Or don't. But wait."

The hardest thing she'd ever done was peel his hand off her arm and follow Victor into the study alone.

---

The study smelled of leather and lies.

Victor closed the door.

Locked it.

Clicked.

"Sit," he said, pouring two glasses of scotch she wouldn't touch.

"I'll stand."

"Suit yourself." He settled into her father's chair—the chair Richard Cross had died planning to give her at twenty-five. "You always were dramatic. Richard encouraged it. Art. Poetry. Softness."

"And you encouraged fraud."

"I encouraged survival." Victor's eyes were flat. "Your father couldn't survive the modern world. I could. I did."

"You killed him."

"I saved the company from his sentiment."

"You killed my mother."

Victor's pause was microscopically small.

Then—smooth again.

"Celia was ill."

"You were in her room an hour before the monitors flatlined."

His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Prove it in court."

"I will."

"With Blackwood files?" He laughed. "Tainted chain of custody. My lawyers eat boys like Damon for breakfast."

"Then why am I here?" she asked.

Victor swirled scotch.

"Because you want a confession you can feel." He leaned forward. "Because you want me on my knees. Because you still think this is grief instead of appetite."

Evelyn's hands curled.

"You took everything."

"I gave you a life in hiding. I could have ended it." His voice softened, almost tender—the tone that had once made her believe he was protection. "I let you run because you were useful as a ghost. Fear keeps boards compliant. 'Poor dead Evelyn.'"

"And now?"

"Now you're inconvenient." He set the glass down. "So I offer a trade. Walk away. Take ten million from an account no one will trace. Disappear. I keep the empire. You keep breathing."

"No."

"Then you die here." Victor's smile finally showed teeth. "The party outside becomes alibi. Heart attack. Tragic return and overdose. I own the coroner again."

He reached for a drawer.

Evelyn drew her pistol.

"Don't."

Victor froze.

"Touch that drawer and I shoot you in the hand first."

"You won't." Confidence. "You're not a killer, Evelyn."

"Try me."

The door behind Victor clicked again—different mechanism.

Hidden.

Evelyn's stomach dropped.

The bookshelf swung open.

Leon Hart stepped through, gun already raised.

"Thanks for the alone time," Leon said.

Victor stood, suddenly relaxed.

"Told you. She wouldn't bring him in."

Evelyn kept her weapon on Victor.

"Damon's in the hall."

"With six of my men and gas in the vents." Victor straightened his cuffs. "He'll sleep. You'll disappear. And tomorrow the world mourns the poor unstable girl who came home to die."

Evelyn smiled.

It wasn't performance.

It was rage crystallized.

"You forgot the tracker bracelet," she said.

Victor frowned.

"The one Eleanor put in my shoe at the boathouse." Evelyn tapped her heel once. "Ultramarine."

The study door exploded inward.

Not gas—Marcus's breach charge, small, controlled.

Damon rolled through smoke, took Leon's shot in the shoulder, fired back.

Chaos.

Evelyn fired at Victor's hand when he lunged for the drawer.

He screamed.

Bone.

Good.

Leon grappled Damon onto the Persian rug, blood bright, gun skittering.

Evelyn kicked Victor's knees out from under him.

He hit the floor gasping.

She pressed the pistol to his temple.

"Keys," she said. "Now."

"You can't—"

"I can." Her voice was steady. "And the FBI is thirty seconds from the study because I also texted *varnish*."

Outside—sirens.

Real ones.

Victor's mask finally shattered.

"Leon," he croaked.

Leon shoved Damon aside, grabbed Victor's arm, dragged him toward the hidden passage.

Damon tackled Leon's legs.

Evelyn fired once—warning shot into the wall.

"Move again and I shoot his knee."

Leon froze.

Victor breathed hard, blood dripping from his ruined hand.

Agents stormed the study.

"Victor Mercer," a voice barked. "You're under arrest."

Victor looked at Evelyn.

Not uncle.

Monster.

"You think this is over," he whispered.

She leaned close.

"It's over enough."

They cuffed him.

Leon too, bleeding, still smiling like pain was a joke.

Damon sagged against the desk, shoulder soaked.

Evelyn caught him.

"Idiot," she breathed.

"Your idiot," he said.

Sirens outside.

Party guests screaming.

The Cross estate finally belonged to the truth for one breath.

Then Victor laughed from the floor, soft and sure.

"They'll post bail by morning."

Evelyn looked at the hidden passage still open—dark throat into the house's bones.

"No," she said quietly.

"They won't."

Because she wasn't done.

And the estate still had secrets her father had died without telling her.

Secrets that waited in the vault Victor had almost reached.

Secrets that would explain why Victor had smiled even with a gun to his head.

Evelyn tightened her grip on Damon's hand.

"Get me the vault," she said.

And the night deepened.