The war is over.
The Vance empire is gone.
But as Malcolm pulls me closer, the heavy weight of his arms shielding me from the cold, I know exactly what we are going to build in the ashes.
CHAPTER 30
MALCOLM
The flashing red and blue lights of the federal vehicles cast sharp, erratic shadows across the brick facade of the warehouse.
I pull back from the kiss, resting my forehead against Audrey’s. She is still trembling, her fingers curled tightly into the wool lapels of my coat. I slide my hands down her arms, rubbing the heavy fabric of her sleeves to generate heat. The Chicago wind is brutal tonight, cutting straight through the layers of clothing.
"You need to get inside," I murmur, my voice rough.
"I'm not leaving you out here," she replies instantly, her teeth chattering slightly.
"I have to speak to the federal agents. I have to give a statement regarding the firearm." I glance at the heavy black pistol resting on the hood of the parked sedan. "And I have to check on Grant."
"I'll come with you to the alley."
"No." I catch her chin, forcing her to look at me. "You are freezing, Audrey. Go inside the lobby. Stand behind the glass doors. I will be right there."
She hesitates, her eyes searching my face. She is looking for the lie, looking for the manipulation I used to get her to stay in the loft. She finds nothing but absolute, exhausted honesty.
"Five minutes," she says, her voice firm.
"Five minutes," I agree.
I let go of her waist. She takes a step back, wrapping her arms around herself, and walks toward the heavy glass doors of the warehouse lobby. I watch her until she is safely inside, the electronic lock clicking shut behind her.
I turn around.
The street is a chaotic mess of tactical coordination. Four of Preston’s contractors are currently kneeling on the freezing asphalt, their hands zip-tied behind their backs. Federal agents are securing their weapons and loading them into the back of an armored transport van.
And standing near the center of the intersection, surrounded by three agents, is Preston Vance.
He is wearing handcuffs. His cashmere overcoat is unbuttoned, flapping slightly in the wind. He doesn't look angry anymore. He looks hollowed out. The absolute, terrifying patriarch of the Vance family has been reduced to an old man standing in the cold.
A tall man wearing a dark suit and an FBI windbreaker walks over to me.
"Mr. Vance," the agent says, holding out a badge. "Special Agent Miller. We received the encrypted files you forwarded to the prosecutor’s office. The raid on your father’s holding company yielded secondary hard drives that corroborate the ledgers."
"I assume you have enough to hold him without bail," I say flatly.
"We have enough to hold him for the rest of his natural life," Miller replies. He looks at the gun resting on the hood of the sedan, then at me. "Your fiancée fired two shots. One in the air, one into the side mirror of that SUV."
"She acted in defense of my life," I state, my voice dropping to a warning register. "The men standing by that vehicle were aiming automatic rifles at my chest. If she hadn't fired, I would be dead."
Miller nods slowly. "We secured the rifles. The contractors are already talking. They claim they were hired by Preston Vance to execute a hit. Given the circumstances, the discharge of the weapon is entirely justified. We will need a formal statement from her tomorrow, but she is not under investigation."
The tight, suffocating knot in my chest finally loosens.
"Where is my head of security?" I ask.
"Paramedics are with him in the east alley," Miller says, gesturing toward the side of the building. "He took a grazing shot to the shoulder. He lost some blood, but he is stable. They are loading him into the ambulance now."
"Thank you, Agent Miller."
