Chapter 5 - Dawn at the Gates
The morning sun did not break through the gray clouds; it merely bled a pale, sickly yellow over the horizon, turning the mist off Lake Michigan into a thick, soup-like fog.
I was dressed in a tailored black wool pantsuit—the same one I had worn to my father’s funeral four years ago, before the Vances barred me from attending. My hair was pulled back into a severe French twist, and my shoes were polished to a mirror shine.
At exactly 5:55 AM, I walked out of the carriage house and down the stone path toward the main manor.
The estate was dead silent. The staff hadn't arrived yet—the cooks and housekeepers usually entered through the service gate at 6:30.
I didn't use the servant’s entrance. I walked straight up the grand marble steps of the front portico, where four towering Corinthian columns held up the triangular pediment bearing the Vance family crest: a soaring eagle clutching a golden coin.
I raised the heavy brass knocker and let it fall three times.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A minute passed. Then, the heavy oak door creaked open.
Julian stood there wearing a silk bathrobe embroidered with his initials in gold thread. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot from scotch and late-night calls, and his expression was a mask of supreme, unadulterated irritation.
“Genevieve?” he snarled, blocking the doorway with his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing at the front door? And why aren't you packed? Ximena said she gave you the papers last night.”
I didn't answer him. I simply looked past his shoulder into the grand marble foyer, where the bronze chandelier caught the dim morning light.
“Where is Victoria?” I asked calmly.
“Sleeping,” Julian snapped, rubbing his eyes. “Unlike you, she doesn't enjoy wandering around the estate like a ghost at dawn. Now, sign the papers, take the fifty grand, and get off my property before I have security throw you out.”
“Security?” I tilted my head. “Which security, Julian? The private firm you hired from Chicago, or the federal marshals currently locking down the perimeter gates?”
Julian froze. His hand dropped from the doorframe. “What did you say?”
Before he could answer, a loud, collective roar of diesel engines echoed from the bottom of the long driveway.
Three large, black-and-white federal transport vans, followed by two unmarked SUVs with flashing red-and-blue lights hidden behind their grilles, came sweeping around the circular drive at high speed. They didn't stop at the gravel pull-off; they drove straight onto the pristine lawn, churning the manicured turf into brown mud as they formed a tactical wedge around the front steps.
Car doors slammed in unison.
Half a dozen federal agents in tactical gear, carrying clear plastic folders and sidearms in reinforced holsters, poured out of the vehicles. At their head was a tall, silver-haired woman in a charcoal trench coat—Special Agent in Charge Miller of the IRS Criminal Investigation Division.
“Julian Vance?” Agent Miller called out, striding up the marble steps with a crisp, authoritative stride.
Julian stepped backward, his face turning the color of skim milk. He looked from the agents to me, his brain refusing to process the geometry of what was happening.
“I am Julian Vance,” he stammered, puffing out his chest with what little residual arrogance he could muster. “I am the CEO of Vance Logistics. You are trespassing on private residential property without a warrant. My father is—”
“Your father’s arrest warrant was executed five minutes ago at his summer home in Palm Beach,” Agent Miller interrupted, pulling a thick sheaf of legal papers from her folder. She didn't look at Julian; she looked directly past him, her eyes locking onto mine with a sharp, respectful nod.
May you like
She turned back to Julian and held out the document.
“Julian Vance, you are being placed under arrest for wire fraud, money laundering, tax evasion, and conspiracy against the United States government. Here are your warrants.”
