SHADOWS OF THE VISCARI EMPIRE

I looked back out the window. Adrien was still standing on the terrace fifty yards below, surrounded by his guards. The threat wasn't coming from outside the estate walls—someone inside the fortress was working for Marcus and Sokolov.

Before I could shout out the window to Adrien, the heavy oak door of my bedroom clicked open.

A young woman in a crisp white housekeeper's uniform stepped into the room carrying a tray of fresh linens. Her name was Clara—a girl who had brought me water earlier that morning with a sweet, shy smile.

“Miss Lena,” Clara said softly, setting the linen tray on the table. “Mr. Viscari asked me to check if you needed anything else before his meeting.”

I kept my hand inside my sweater pocket, holding the phone, keeping my voice steady. “No, thank you, Clara. I’m fine.”

Clara turned around, her sweet smile instantly vanishing, replaced by a cold, predatory gleam in her eyes. She pulled a small, suppressed pistol from beneath the folded white towels on her tray.

“Don't move, Lena,” Clara whispered, raising the weapon directly at my chest. “One sound, and I put a bullet through your heart before Viscari can make it up those stairs.”

I backed up slowly against the fireplace mantle, my hands shaking, but I forced myself to look her in the eye.

“Marcus paid you?” I asked, stallling for time.

“Marcus is a small player,” Clara sneered, stepping closer. “Viktor Sokolov pays much better. Now, give me the photograph Viscari found in Blake’s apartment. I know it has the coordinates to your mother’s ledger hidden in the scratched background.”

My mind raced. The scratched background.

I realized why the woman’s face in the photograph had been scratched away—it wasn't done out of hatred; it was done with a micro-needle to carve GPS coordinates into the emulsion layer of the photograph!

“I don't have it,” I lied, keeping my posture solid. “Adrien has it in his safe.”

“Liar!” Clara hissed, taking a step forward, raising the gun to my forehead. “Search her pocket!”

Before she could pull the trigger, the balcony glass doors behind Clara exploded inward.

Marco swung through the shattered glass frame like an iron pendulum, crashing directly into Clara, tackling her onto the floor. The suppressed pistol discharged harmlessly into the ceiling plaster with a soft pfft.

Adrien burst through the bedroom door a fraction of a second later, his weapon drawn, his face a terrifying mask of primal rage.

Within seconds, Marco pinned Clara to the floor, disarming her and securing her wrists in heavy plastic zip-ties.

Adrien rushed over to me, grabbing my shoulders, pulling me tightly against his chest, his breathing heavy and ragged.

“Are you hurt?!” he demanded, his hands checking my waist, my neck, my arms. “Did she touch you?!”

“I’m okay... Adrien, I’m okay!” I sobbed, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder.

Adrien held me so tight I could feel the wild, violent thumping of his heart against my ribs. He turned his head toward Clara, who was weeping on the floor under Marco’s heavy knee.

“Who gave you access to the estate grounds, Clara?” Adrien asked, his voice dropping into a register that made the room freeze.