Three days after the shooting, Declan finally gets confirmation. “Victor Vance will meet with you,” he says. “Tomorrow night. Private dining room at The Mercer.”
“He’s here in New York?”
“Flew back yesterday. Apparently, he’s been in Barbados handling family business.”
“Tell him I’ll be there.”
I spend the afternoon reviewing everything I know about Victor Vance. He took over the family operation fifteen years ago when his brother died, and runs it with ruthless efficiency that demands respect even from enemies. He’s careful, strategic, and doesn’t make emotional decisions.
The Mercer is exactly what you’d expect for this meeting. Upscale and discreet, where privacy is guaranteed. The private dining room is in the back, away from the main floor, with soundproofing that ensures whatever gets said stays between us.
Victor is already there when I arrive. He’s in his late fifties, gray hair slicked back, wearing a suit like an honest businessman. His expression is cold, assessing, and he doesn’t stand when I enter.
“Cassian Rourke,” he says. “I wondered how long it would take you to reach out.”
I take the seat across from him. “You have something that belongs to me.”
His mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Interesting choice of words. I wasn’t aware I owed you anything.”
“The woman your people took off the street last week. I want her back.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. You grabbed your runaway niece during the chaos after the Petrov shooting. She’s been gone two months, and you finally found her.”
Victor’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. “And what makes you think my niece has anything to do with you?”
“Because she was meeting me when your people took her.”
Victor leans back in his chair, studying me with a focus that suggests he’s reassessing everything he thought he knew about this situation. “My niece,” he says slowly, “has been through a difficult time. She’s under family protection now—where she belongs.”
“I want to see her.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Then give me proof she’s safe.”
“I don’t owe you proof of anything.”
I lean forward, keeping my voice level despite the anger simmering beneath. “You took her off the street without knowing who she was with, without knowing what agreements she might have made. That’s sloppy, Victor. Not like you.”
His jaw tightens slightly. The first crack in his composure. “My niece,” he says carefully, “doesn’t want contact with anyone from her time on the run. She’s home now. Under family care. That’s all you need to know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t particularly care what you believe.”
We stare at each other across the table, and I realize with sinking certainty that I’m not getting anywhere. He’s not going to confirm where she is or let me speak with her, and pushing harder right now just backs him into a corner.
“I want proof,” I say again. “Proof that she’s alive and unharmed. Then I’ll consider backing off.”
Victor pulls out his phone, scrolls through something, then turns the screen toward me.
It’s a photo of Aurelia, standing on a balcony with views of the ocean behind her. She’s wearing casual clothes, and isn’t looking at the camera, but it’s definitely her.
“Satisfied?” Victor asks.
I memorize every detail of the photo before he pulls the phone back. “Where is she?”
