“EMMA, TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY FIANCÉ!”

The rain over Manhattan was relentless, turning the glass facade of Moretti Tower into a shimmering sheet of charcoal grey.

Located at the corner of 57th and Park Avenue, the seventy-story monolith was the beating heart of Luca Moretti’s logistics and shipping empire. At 8:30 on Thursday night, thirty-six hours before the Delaware court hearing, the executive suites on the sixty-fifth floor were supposedly locked down.

Supposedly.

"Camera loops are holding on elevators four and five," a voice crackled through the encrypted earpiece in my ear.

It was Leo Ortiz, Luca’s former head of cybersecurity, whom Julian had fired three months earlier on trumped-up charges of corporate espionage. Luca had contacted Leo forty-eight hours ago from Montauk; Leo had arrived at our safehouse with two military-grade laptops and a burning desire for retribution.

"You have six minutes before the digital sweep cycles, Emma," Leo whispered. "Floor sixty-five is clear. Vance is currently having an early dinner at the Harvard Club with Dr. King. Security at the desk is running on Vance's private contractor credentials. Move now."

I stepped out of the service elevator into the dim, carpeted corridor of the executive floor.

I was wearing a charcoal administrative pantsuit, my hair pulled back into a severe chignon, wearing an authentic, cloned employee badge Leo had coded twenty minutes earlier. Underneath my arm, I carried a slim leather briefcase containing a portable high-speed decryption drive.

Our objective was simple: Dr. King had not stored his forged clinical assessments on his personal computers; he was too paranoid for that. Leo’s digital tracing had revealed that King had backed up his encrypted correspondence with Julian Vance directly onto Julian’s private, offline server located inside the master executive suite.

The door to Julian’s office yielded with a soft click as I tapped the cloned keycard against the electronic sensor.

The office was enormous, wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the storm-swept skyline of Central Park. Modernist art hung from white walls, and a massive glass desk dominated the center of the room.

"I'm in," I whispered into the lapel mic.

"Access the credenza behind the desk," Leo instructed. "The physical server terminal is keyed to a biometric lock, but I've patched a bypass through the climate control circuit. Plug the black flash drive into the secondary USB port beneath the cooling vent."

I hurried behind the desk, knelt beside the mahogany credenza, and found the small, recessed server unit. My hands were shaking slightly, but I forced my breathing to slow, channeling the focus I used when inserting an arterial line in a crashing patient.

I inserted the flash drive. The LED indicator blinked amber, then steady green.

"Link established," Leo’s voice sounded triumphant. "Copying the data. Two minutes."

"Make it one," I murmured, my eyes scanning the shadow-drenched office.

On Julian’s desk sat a framed photograph. I glanced at it. It was a shot taken two years ago on Luca’s yacht in Monaco. Luca, Julian, and Vanessa were laughing, champagne glasses raised against the Mediterranean sunset. Luca had his arm around Julian’s shoulders like a brother.

The sheer depth of the betrayal made my stomach twist. Julian hadn't just wanted Luca’s money; he had wanted his entire existence—his company, his reputation, his woman, and his life.

"Emma, we've got a problem," Leo’s voice suddenly crackled, the calm dropping instantly. "An elevator just left the lobby. Express to sixty-five."

My blood ran cold. "Julian?"

"No, security says it's a private card. It's Vanessa. She must have left her apartment after the press conference. She’s going to be on your floor in forty seconds!"

"Data transfer is at seventy-eight percent," I hissed, watching the progress bar on the tiny LCD screen of the flash drive. "I can't pull it early or the files will corrupt!"

"Emma, get out of there!"

"Eighty-five percent..."

The soft, distinctive chime of the executive elevator echoed from the reception lobby down the hall.

Footsteps followed. The sharp, deliberate click of designer heels against polished marble, accompanied by the rustle of an umbrella being shaken dry.

"Ninety-two percent..."

The footsteps were approaching Julian’s double doors. Vanessa was humming a light, melodic tune—a woman completely at ease, confident that her victory was already sealed.

*Click.* The flash drive flashed solid blue. Transfer complete.

I ripped the drive from the port, slammed the credenza panel shut, and ducked into the narrow space behind the heavy linen drapes flanking the floor-to-ceiling windows just as the office door swung open.

The overhead lights flared to life with a quiet hum.

Through the narrow gap in the drapes, I saw Vanessa enter. She was dressed in an emerald silk trench coat, carrying a shopping bag from an upscale boutique on Madison Avenue. She tossed her wet umbrella onto Julian’s leather sofa, walked directly to the glass desk, and set down her bag.

She pulled out her phone and tapped the speaker.

A moment later, Julian’s voice filled the room. *"Did you find the secondary passports?"*

"I just got here, Julian, relax," Vanessa replied, leaning back against the edge of the desk, crossing her long legs. "King is confident. The judge has already received the preliminary medical brief. The conservatorship will be signed by noon tomorrow. Luca’s estate will be locked down."

*"And Luca?"* Julian asked, his voice crackling through the high-end speaker. *"Any word from our sources at the city hospitals?"*

"He hasn't surfaced," Vanessa said, a cruel, mocking smile touching her scarlet lips. "Wherever that pathetic little nurse dragged him, he’s probably already brain-dead. Even if he wakes up, who is going to believe a man with a documented history of psychotic breaks and organ failure over his fiancée and his COO? He’s finished, Julian."

Behind the curtain, my fingers tightened around the metal casing of the flash drive. The rage burning in my chest was so intense it took everything I had not to tear the drapes down and smash the drive into her smug, beautiful face.

"I'm grabbing the deed files from your safe and meeting you at the Carlyle," Vanessa added, turning toward the wall behind the desk where a hidden wall safe was concealed behind an abstract painting.

As she stepped toward the painting, her eyes dropped to the floor.

She froze.

Right beside the credenza, clearly visible against the dark hardwood, was a single, wet footprint left by my rubber-soled nursing shoe.

Vanessa’s head snapped toward the drapes.

"Who’s in here?" she whispered, her voice dropping all pretense of ease, instantly replaced by sharp, paranoid suspicion.

She reached into her designer trench coat, her hand emerging with a small, nickel-plated .380 semi-automatic pistol.