COLD RAIN, SHATTERED CROWN: RECLAIMING WHAT WAS MINE

The Mayfair mansion of Victor Vance was an impenetrable fortress of old money and dark secrets. Inside the grand dining room, beneath a crystal chandelier worth millions, six high-ranking syndicate members sat around a long mahogany table. At the head of the table sat Victor Vance—seventy years old, with slicked-back silver hair, cold predatory eyes, and a silver cane resting against his chair.

""Julian Sterling was an incompetent fool,"" Victor said, his raspy voice slicing through the quiet room as he cut into a rare steak. ""He had the Vance heiress under his thumb for seven years and failed to execute the final transfers before she turned the tables. Now our offshore accounts are under federal scrutiny.""

""What about the girl?"" one of the associates asked nervously. ""She dismantled the entire Sterling empire in less than a week. She’s far more dangerous than her father ever was.""

""She’s an emotional woman hiding in Italy,"" Victor sneered, waving his hand dismissively. ""My operatives will handle her quietly next week. Once she is eliminated, her grandfather's original trust defaults to me as the sole surviving male heir.""

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the dining room were blasted open with a deafening crash.

The associates jumped to their feet, reaching for concealed firearms, but before they could draw, ten heavily armed operatives in black tactical gear flooded the room, aiming laser sights at every man’s chest.

""Move and you die,"" Marcus’s thunderous voice resonated through the smoke.

The associates froze, raising their hands in sheer panic.

Victor remained in his seat, his knuckles whitening around his silver cane as he stared into the doorway.

Walking through the shattered entrance was Elena Vance. She moved with effortless grace, her heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor. She took off her black leather gloves, tossing them onto the dining table right into Victor’s plate of steak.

""Good evening, Uncle Victor,"" Elena said, her voice smooth, sweet, and entirely devoid of mercy. ""I believe you’re sitting in my father's chair.""

Victor’s sneer returned, though a bead of cold sweat formed near his hairline. ""Elena. You're bold, coming into my house with hired guns. You think this intimidates me? I built this syndicate with your grandfather’s blood. You have no legal standing here.""

Elena pulled an electronic tablet from Arthur and laid it flat on the table, sliding it directly in front of Victor.

""Your syndicate doesn't exist anymore, Victor,"" Elena whispered. ""Ten minutes ago, Scotland Yard and Interpol raided your four dummy corporations in the Cayman Islands. They have the financial ledgers, the wiretap transcripts of your conspiracy to murder my father, and the original transaction logs detailing your payments to Julian’s father.""