THE MAFIA BOSS BOARDED THE OFFHORE TERMINAL AS AN ARMS HEIRESS RIPPED HIS CARTOGRAPHER'S BLOUSE—THEN WHISPERED TO THE CAPTAIN, “BRING A CASHMERE WRAP FOR MY WIFE BEFORE I STRIP THIS DOCK OF ITS FLAGS.”

The sterile hum of the computer servers filled the control room like the drone of a hornet's nest.

Richard Vance did not immediately look up when the heavy steel door swung inward.

He assumed it was one of his mercenaries bringing a fresh status report on the stealth submersible down in the dry dock.

“Leave the manifest on the desk and check the perimeter gates,” Richard commanded smoothly, his eyes still fixed on the scrolling lines of encrypted satellite telemetry across his center monitor.

I stepped across the threshold behind Christian, my boots making no sound on the industrial rubber flooring.

Christian didn't draw a weapon.

He simply walked over to the edge of the steel-grated mezzanine, leaned his broad shoulders against the control console, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“The perimeter guards are currently tied up, Richard,” Christian said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, subterranean register that made the air in the room feel ten degrees colder.

Richard froze.

The magazine he was holding slipped from his fingers, clattering sharply against the steel desktop.

He whipped his head around, his slate-grey eyes widening in absolute shock as he stared at Christian standing beneath the flickering overhead fluorescent tubes.

Then his gaze shifted to me standing slightly behind Christian’s left shoulder.

“You...” Richard hissed, his face twisting into an ugly snarl as he instinctively reached for the Sig Sauer pistol resting beside his keyboard.

He never touched it.

Christian moved with terrifying, blinding speed.

In less than a heartbeat, Christian vaulted across the four-foot gap of the control desk, his heavy combat boot smashing directly into the edge of the steel table.

The desk flipped upward with a deafening crash, pinning Richard’s chest against the back wall and sending computer monitors, coffee mugs, and loose papers cascading onto the floor in a shower of sparks.

“Ahhh!” Richard gasped, the wind knocked completely out of his lungs as Christian’s massive hand clamped around his throat, lifting his boots six inches off the floor.

“You’ve been busy, cousin,” Christian whispered, his pale green eyes burning with a cold, unforgiving fury. “Diverting defense contracts. Funneling black-market uranium through my Miami berths. And conspiring with Adriana to erase my family.”

Richard clawed frantically at Christian’s forearm, his face turning a deep, dangerous shade of purple.

“C-Christian... wait... we’re family...” Richard choked out, his voice a pathetic rattle.

“My father may have built this syndicate on blood and betrayal,” Christian said quietly, his grip tightening until Richard’s eyes bulged. “But he never sold our shipping lanes to foreign cartels.”

Christian slammed Richard’s head back against the reinforced drywall with a dull thud.

The commander went limp, sliding down the wall into an unconscious heap amidst the tangled computer cables.

Christian didn't even look down at him.

He turned his head toward the central terminal console, whose screens were still flashing warning codes in bright crimson text.

“Maya,” Christian called out, breathing heavily as he rolled his shoulders.

“Yes, Mr. Vance?” I stepped forward, looking down at the sprawling digital interface.

“Can you access the primary routing logs? I need to know every single offshore account linked to this terminal before the auto-wipe protocol kicks in.”

I sat down in Richard’s blood-spattered executive chair, placing my hands on the mechanical keyboard.

My mind raced back to the ledger pages I had memorized on Star Island.

Root directory.

Execute command sequence.

Override code: GENOA-98-DELTA.

I typed furiously, my fingers flying across the keys as lines of green text cascaded down the black monitor screens.

Access granted.

Downloading encrypted financial archives... 45%... 80%... 100%.

A small green confirmation box popped up in the center of the screen, displaying a complete directory of offshore Swiss bank accounts, international shell companies, and the personal identities of every corrupt defense official involved in the conspiracy.

Including the names of the admirals who had been dining on Star Island the night before.

“I have it all, Christian,” I said, looking up from the monitor. “Every file, every wire transfer, every coordinate.”

Christian walked over, placing his large, warm hand on the back of my chair as he stared down at the glowing screen.

“You’re remarkable, Maya,” he murmured, his voice softening as he looked down at me.

Before I could answer, a piercing, high-pitched klaxon began to wail from the control room ceiling.

“Warning. Self-destruct sequence initiated in sector four. T-minus ninety seconds.”

The computer screens flashed from green to blazing, toxic red.

Richard stirred on the floor, groaning as he clutched his bleeding forehead.

Christian grabbed the master data-drive from the console USB port, tucked it securely into his tactical vest, and hauled Richard to his feet by the collar of his ruined uniform.