She just walked away. From the other side of the heavy mahogany desk

Forty-eight hours after the inferno at Château de Montrottier, the world believed Julian Mercer had perished in an accidental gas explosion at his private estate. French authorities reported finding two bodies burned beyond recognition—one of them an unidentified female intruder.

Ariana had planted a burned corpse from a local mortuary in the rubble to buy us time.

Now, we stood on the deck of a wooden *vaporetto* gliding through the misty, dark waters of the Grand Canal in Venice. The city was cloaked in winter fog, its ancient marble palazzos rising from the black lagoon like decaying monuments to secret power.

"The Doge’s Masquerade," Ariana said, leaning against the wooden railing, her face framed by an exquisite black silk evening gown and an ornate silver filigree mask. "It’s an annual ultra-exclusive gala held at the Palazzo Pisani Moretta. Tickets cost half a million euros each, donated to a dummy cultural foundation. The guest list includes sovereign wealth fund directors, defense conglomerate CEOs, and black-market arms brokers."

I looked at my own reflection in the dark water. I wore a backless midnight-blue velvet gown, my military posture masked by the tailored elegance of the fabric. Beneath the folds of the heavy silk skirt, a titanium stiletto knife was strapped to my inner thigh, and a micro-suppressed .380 was holstered against the small of my back beneath an embroidered corset.

"And 'The Archon'?" I asked.

"An alias," Ariana replied, adjusting a miniature optical transmitter embedded in the brooch pinned to her dress. "A ghost identity used in Swiss numbered banking transfers since the late 1980s. Every major covert military budget passed through an account signed by that moniker. Whoever he is, he’s attending the gala tonight. And he knows Mercer is dead."

The boat eased up to the private wooden pier of the Palazzo Pisani Moretta. Torchlight flickered against the damp stone facade. Doormen in 18th-century Venetian livery inspected invitation cards stamped with cryptographic wax seals.

Ariana passed our invitations forward—flawlessly forged using the digital cryptographic keys we had pulled from Mercer’s safe before the hit squad destroyed the estate.

The doorman bowed deeply. "Welcome to the Masquerade, Lady Vance."

We stepped inside. The grand ballroom was a spectacle of decadent luxury and profound moral decay. Hundreds of guests drifted across the marble floors beneath glittering Murano glass chandeliers, their faces obscured by porcelain masks, feathers, and gold leaf. Operatic music played from a string quartet in the mezzanine, masking the quiet, high-stakes negotiations taking place in every shadowed alcove.

"I’m scanning the room," Ariana whispered, her lips barely moving behind her silver mask. "Matching facial geometry against the decrypted files from the Banque Cantonale drive."

"Look for private security," I murmured, my eyes sweeping the room with cold tactical analysis. "Men who don't drink, don't watch the women, and keep their backs to load-bearing columns."

"I have three at the entrance to the second-floor private salon," she said softly. "Ear pieces, concealed sub-armor. And Maya... look at the balcony overlooking the canal."

I turned my eyes upward.

Standing against the gilded railing was a tall, distinguished man in his late sixties, wearing an ivory mask adorned with a gilded eagle. His posture was commanding, his silver hair neatly combed back. On the lapel of his tuxedo was a small, understated lapel pin: a crossed sabre and broken arrow.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

It was the insignia of the 10th Special Forces Group—the exact unit my father had commanded during the closing years of the Cold War.

"Ariana, stay in the crowd," I instructed, my voice dropping to a whisper. "If this goes hot, cut the ballroom’s main power supply from the breaker box in the wine cellar. You have two minutes."

"Maya, wait—"

I was already moving.

I ascended the marble staircase, gliding past laughing dignitaries and masked oligarchs with the smooth grace of a predator stalking its prey. The two private security guards at the salon entrance moved to intercept me, but I didn't slow down.

As the first guard reached out an arm to bar my path, I stepped inside his reach, my fingers finding the nerve cluster beneath his collarbone in an agonizing pressure strike. He gasped, his legs buckling instantly. With my other hand, I pressed the cold muzzle of my concealed .380 against the ribs of the second guard before he could draw his weapon.

"Smile, step into the alcove, and sit down," I whispered with lethal precision. "Or bleed out on five-hundred-year-old marble."

The second guard went rigid, slowly nodding. He dragged his paralyzed partner into the shadowed alcove and collapsed onto an antique settee.

I walked past them, stepping onto the private balcony. The cold Venetian wind swept across the canal, carrying the scent of salt and ancient dampness.

The man in the ivory mask did not turn around. He leaned against the stone balustrade, swirling an amber glass of cognac.

"You have your mother's walk, Maya," he said quietly, his voice deep, gravelly, and instantly recognizable from tape recordings I had listened to in childhood. "And your father's stubborn, suicidal courage."

The man reached up, removed the ivory mask, and turned to face me.

My breath stopped in my throat.

General Arthur Vance. Former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The father of Senator Vance, Rhys's chief patron, and the man who had delivered the eulogy at my father's military funeral twenty years ago.