Chapter 8 - The Iron Lady Of The Syndicate And The Ultimatum In The Study
"Who is that?" I asked quietly, standing up from the table as Lily and Emma instinctively quieted down, sensing the sudden shift in the room's temperature.
"Eleanor Vance," Adrian growled, his voice laced with venom. "Marcus's older sister and the actual brains behind the syndicate's international shipping logistics. When the federal marshals rounded up Marcus's crew, I assumed she had fled the country for Zurich."
"She didn't flee," Mrs. Gable muttered, wiping her hands on a dish towel with a grim look. "Vance women never run. They bite back."
Adrian turned to me, his dark eyes locking onto mine with fierce protectiveness. "Take the girls up to the third-floor playroom and lock the reinforced door. Do not come out until I call you."
"No," I said firmly, taking a step toward him. "Adrian, listen to me. Last time you tried to face a Vance alone, you nearly got killed in the wine cellar. I'm not hiding upstairs while you walk into another trap. We're a team now, remember?"
Adrian stared at me, a mixture of shock and profound admiration flashing across his features. Before he could argue, the intercom buzzed again, Eleanor's voice ringing sharper this time. "I know you're listening, Adrian. And I know you have the ledger. But you also have two precious little girls who go to St. Jude's Academy every morning at eight o'clock. Shall we test how fast local security responds to a hostage situation?"
The blood drained from Adrian's face, his fists balling up so tightly his knuckles turned white. Threatening his daughters was crossing a line that meant absolute, merciless war.
"Let her in, Adrian," I said steadily, stepping right beside him. "Let her walk right into the lion's den. She thinks you're vulnerable because you're a father now. Let's show her exactly what a father protecting his children is capable of."
Ten minutes later, Eleanor Vance stepped into the grand study, her high heels clicking sharply against the polished oak floorboards. She wore a tailored white Chanel suit, her sunglasses resting on top of her head, her expression a mask of arrogant superiority. She didn't look like a woman whose brother had just been arrested; she looked like a queen inspecting a conquered province.
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"Adrian, darling," Eleanor purred, walking toward his massive mahogany desk. "Playing domestic hero with a twenty-four-year-old nanny? Really? I expected more from the great—"
She stopped mid-sentence as Adrian didn't cower behind his desk. Instead, he stood tall, flanked not by armed thugs, but by me standing calmly right by his side, holding the original financial ledger in my hands.
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