“Izzy!” Sergei’s behind me, clearing a path through the chaos. “Wait for backup?—”
“No time!” I burst through the service door into a stark white corridor. Stainless steel, industrial lighting, the guts of The Plaza hidden behind its golden facade.
Matthew’s fifty feet ahead, Cal wheezing beside him. They spot a side exit—employee door leading to the loading docks—and bolt.
I’m faster. Adrenaline and rage make me so fast, that I’m closing the distance, my heels clicking on tile like gunshots. Matthew reaches the door, shoves it open?—
And Mother’s there.
Catherine Davenport stands in the loading dock wearing black Dior and pearls, a town car idling behind her. She’s holding a briefcase. Running money. Escape plan.
They were going to leave together.
“Get in!” Mother’s voice cracks. “Both of you—now!”
“Isabelle’s here—” Matthew starts.
“I don’t care. Move!”
I burst through the door, gun raised, and Mother’s face goes white. Behind me, Sergei appears, his own weapon drawn, covering the angles with professional precision.
“Going somewhere?” My voice echoes off concrete. “Without saying goodbye?”
“Isabelle, please.” Mother’s mask slips. “You don’t understand what you’re doing. These are dangerous men?—”
“I married one. I think I can handle it.” I advance slowly, gun steady despite my hands wanting to shake. “Besides, the only dangerous people here are you two. Murderers. Thieves. Cowards, running away instead of facing consequences.”
“We’ll give you anything.” Matthew’s backing toward the car. “Money, power, control of the company. Just let us leave.”
“You killed my father.” The words come out quiet. Lethal. “You think I want your blood money? I want justice. I want you in prison. I want you to rot.”
Cal Reznick makes his move. Stupid, desperate, but he lunges for Mother’s briefcase—probably full of cash or documents or both. The sudden movement triggers chaos.
Sergei fires. The bullet catches Cal in the chest. He drops, briefcase clattering across concrete, spilling hundred dollar bills that scatter like confetti.
Mother screams.
Matthew draws a gun I didn’t know he had, swinging it toward Sergei?—
I pull the trigger.
The shot echoes. Matthew staggers, clutching his shoulder where my bullet tore through expensive fabric and flesh. His gun clatters away, and he collapses against the town car, sliding down until he’s sitting in a growing pool of blood and cash.
“You shot me.” He stares at the wound like he can’t process it. “Your own uncle?—”
“You’re not family. Family doesn’t murder each other. You’re just a man who killed my father and thought he’d get away with it.” I close the distance, gun still raised, and I kick his weapon away. “You thought wrong.”
Mother’s frozen, mascara streaking down her perfect face, pearls clutched in white-knuckled hands. Behind her, the town car’s engine cuts off. The driver—smart man—bolts, leaving her stranded.
“Catherine Davenport?” Detective Fraser’s voice cuts through the night. He appears from the service entrance, flanked by uniformed officers, and behind them?—
Wesley. Carrying an enormous file box like it’s treasure.
“Detective Fraser,” I lower my gun, suddenly exhausted. “Perfect timing.”
“Mrs. Orlov.” Fraser’s eyes sweep the scene—Matthew bleeding, Cal dead, Mother trembling, me covered in blood that’s mostly not mine. “You want to tell me what happened here?”
“Self-defense. Matthew and his associates attacked us at the gala. Multiple witnesses. Security footage. The whole thing.”
