Everyone Abandoned the Paralyzed Crime Boss Until the Maid’s Little Girl Climbed Into His Lap and Said Four Words He Couldn’t Forget

Grant scrambled out of his chair, spinning around as the thick steel shutters sealed the office in total darkness, save for the single desk lamp illuminating Vincent.

"What did you do?!" Grant yelled, swinging his gun back toward Vincent.

"This room was built by my father during the cartel wars of '98," Vincent said smoothly, reaching into his desk drawer. "It is a fortress. And right now, Marcus and twenty of my most loyal men are securing the grounds. Your drivers outside are already dead, Grant."

Grant’s breathing turned ragged. He pointed the weapon at Vincent’s head, his hand trembling slightly. "It doesn't matter! I shoot you right now, and I take your keys! I walk out of here!"

"You could," Vincent agreed, pulling a heavy silver revolver from the drawer and placing it calmly on the desk beside the cookie crumb. "But you won't."

"And why the hell not?!"

"Because you're a coward, Grant," Vincent said, his voice cut like glass. "You've always been a coward. You hire shooters to do your work on highways because you don't have the nerve to pull a trigger yourself."

Before Grant could respond, a muffled explosion rocked the outer estate, shaking the heavy concrete floor beneath them.

Vincent’s brow furrowed. That hadn't been part of his plan.

His private radio on the desk crackled to life. Marcus's panicked voice came through the speaker amidst the sound of intense automatic gunfire. "Boss! We’ve got a problem! It’s not just Grant! Sal Moretti brought forty men! They just blew the front gate with C4! They’re breaching the main house!"

Grant’s face split into a hysterical, triumphant laugh. "You think I came here alone, Vincent?! Moretti knew I was coming here tonight! If I didn't check in by nine o'clock, his strike team was ordered to flatten this place and kill everyone inside!"

Vincent’s blood went cold.

Everyone inside.

Claire and Lucy were on the third floor.

For two years, Vincent Calder had believed his heart was dead, killed by spinal trauma and betrayal. But in that fraction of a second, as he thought of the little girl in the yellow sweater and her mother trapped in the upper wing, a blinding, apocalyptic fury roared back to life inside him.

"You fool," Vincent whispered, his dark eyes glowing with a terrifying light.

With a speed that defied his paralysis, Vincent grabbed the silver revolver from the desk.

Grant tried to raise his silenced pistol, but he was too slow.

THUD.

Vincent fired a heavy .45 caliber round straight through Grant’s knee.

Grant shrieked in agony, dropping his gun and collapsing onto the Persian rug, clutching his shattered leg as blood pooled around him.

"You thought I couldn't stand up, Grant?" Vincent said, wheeling his chair around the desk until he was hovering over his bleeding former friend. He reached down, grabbed Grant by the collar with one iron-like hand, and hauled him up until their faces were inches apart.

"I don't need to stand to kill you," Vincent growled into his ear.

Vincent struck Grant across the temple with the heavy steel barrel of his revolver, knocking him unconscious instantly.

Dropping Grant’s limp body like trash, Vincent racked the slide of his revolver, grabbed his radio, and keyed the mic. "Marcus! Report!"

Static screamed over the radio. "Boss! They’ve taken the ground floor! We’re falling back to the second floor staircase! There are too many of them!"

"Are the third-floor security doors locked?" Vincent demanded, his chair already moving toward the side emergency exit.

"Yes, but Moretti’s men brought thermite charges!" Marcus yelled over the deafening roar of submachine guns. "They’re cutting through the estate floor by floor! They want you dead, Boss!"

Vincent clicked off the radio.