**Hidden cameras covered every inch of my mansion, but nothing prepared me for what I witnessed inside my paralyzed son's bedroom.** After a car bomb killed my wife and left my eight-year-old son unable to walk, I'd stopped trusting everyone. Then I hired a caretaker who wasn't afraid of me, and three days later, I watched her do something that brought me to my knees. / Chapter 6 / 10

Chapter 6 - The Shadows of the PastI pressed my back against the textured wallpaper just outside the master study, my breathing shallow and controlled. Through the open doorway, I saw two tactical operatives moving with terrifying efficiency down the hallway, their assault rifles raised, scanning every corner for movement.

I didn't hesitate.

Stepping out from the shadows, I raised my pistol and fired twice. The deafening roar of gunfire shattered the quiet of the hallway. The lead operative grunted, stumbling backward into the wall before collapsing onto the Persian rug. The second operative instantly spun around, bringing his rifle barrel toward my chest.

Before he could pull the trigger, a heavy brass floor lamp came crashing down from above with bone-crushing force, striking him squarely across the helmet.

The man collapsed in a heap.

I looked up. Standing on the second-story balcony overlooking the hallway was Clara, her chest heaving, holding the heavy metal base of a broken lamp in her hands.

"Nice throw," I muttered, lowering my weapon for a fraction of a second before grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the master study. "Are Matthew and you safe?"

"He's locked inside the panic room," Clara said, her voice finally showing a crack of adrenaline-fueled panic. "The steel door is sealed from the inside. But Vincent... how did they bypass your military-grade security?"

"That's what I intend to find out," I growled, pulling my encrypted satellite phone from my pocket.

Before I could dial my head of security, the phone vibrated violently in my hand. An incoming call from an unknown, restricted number flashed across the screen.

I hit answer and brought the phone to my ear.

"Hello, Vincent," a smooth, chillingly familiar voice purred through the speaker. It was a voice I hadn't heard in fourteen months—the voice of Marcus Vance, my former chief operating officer who had mysteriously vanished right around the time my car was bombed. "Marcus," I snarled, venom dripping from every syllable. "You cowardly piece of garbage. You're behind this."

"Such harsh words for an old friend," Marcus chuckled coldly on the other end of the line. "You really thought you could bury the offshore embezzlement scandal by firing me, didn't you? You thought you won. But you left loose ends, Vincent. And unfortunately for you, your little boy knows the password to your private server drawer where the physical ledger books are kept."

My blood ran cold. The car bomb wasn't random corporate sabotage. It was Marcus trying to eliminate my entire family to secure his escape with stolen millions. And when he realized Matthew had survived, he sent his cleaning crew to finish the job.

"If you touch my son," I whispered, my voice dropping into a terrifying, lethal register, "I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and skin you alive."