My Right-Hand Man Erased My Pregnant Wife for 7 Years—Then His Own Voice Exposed Him at Our Emergency Meeting

"Cruz," I said, keeping my voice dangerously level as I slowly lowered my pistol by an inch, signaling Marina to hold her fire. "You built your career under my flag. You put your kids through college on bonuses I signed with my own hand. Is Marcus really worth throwing your life away?"

Cruz hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip on the assault rifle trembling slightly. The loyalty of my inner circle had always been my greatest strength—and, as Marcus had so brutally proven, my greatest vulnerability.

"It's not about Marcus, sir," Cruz called down, bitterness lacing his tone. "It's about survival. You think you're the only one who figured out what he was doing? Marcus had files on all of us. Every dirty deal, every offshore account, every buried scandal. If he goes down, he takes the entire executive tier with him—including me."

"Then let him take you!" Marina shouted, stepping out from behind the concrete pillar, her pistol instantly snapping upward to lock onto Cruz’s chest. "You think prison is bad? Try raising a child in a basement while men like you watch the doors! You don't get to hide behind 'just following orders' anymore!"

Cruz flinched, his eyes darting between Marina’s unwavering stance and the muzzle of my weapon. The psychological weight of the past seven years—the sudden collapse of the illusion of security—crushed whatever resolve he had left.

With a sharp clatter, Cruz dropped the assault rifle, letting it slide down the metal stairs until it hit the concrete floor at our feet. He raised his hands slowly, stepping back into the shadows of the catwalk. "He's in the office," Cruz muttered hoarsely. "End of the hall. He’s got the digital backup drives. He’s planning to wipe the servers and vanish on a freighter bound for South America."

I didn't waste another word. I kicked the assault rifle aside, grabbed Marina’s arm to keep her close, and sprinted up the metal staircase, the rusted grating groaning beneath our boots.

The door to the second-floor office was a heavy slab of fire-rated steel, standing slightly ajar. A thin strip of blue light spilled out from the crack, accompanied by the frantic, high-pitched beep of a data-transfer terminal.

I didn't knock. I slammed my boot directly into the center of the door panel, snapping the electronic latch and sending the heavy steel crashing inward against the drywall.

Marcus Vance stood by the glass desk overlooking the slip. He looked disheveled, his tactical turtleneck torn at the shoulder, dried blood caked across his jaw from where I had struck him in the study. In his left hand, he held a sleek titanium flash drive; in his right, he held a heavy-duty detonator wired directly to several bricks of C4 strapped to the support columns of the warehouse.

"Ah, the domestic bliss tour," Marcus laughed, his voice ragged and manic. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, wired on pure adrenaline and exhaustion. "You just don't know when to quit, do you, Alessandro?"

"It's over, Marcus," I said, raising my sidearm and locking the laser sight directly onto the center of his chest. "The federal marshals are sealing the perimeter. The shipping lanes are locked down. You have nowhere to run."

"Run?" Marcus smiled, a twisted, broken expression that barely resembled a human face. "I'm not running, Alessandro. If I don't get to keep the empire, nobody does."