The man I loved for eight years refused to marry me—then he married my older sister. Three years later,

The black Maybach tore down the motorway at a reckless hundred and twenty miles per hour, ignoring speed cameras and police roadblocks alike. Dante drove himself, his knuckles fused to the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the ribbon of asphalt cutting through the dark English countryside toward Farnborough private airfield.

In the back seat, Leo had finally drifted back to sleep, exhausted by the night's terrifying ordeal. I sat beside him, clutching the Beretta in my lap, staring out the window as the misty fields blurred into streaks of green and gray.

"He thinks he can run," Dante said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any emotion other than lethal focus. "He thinks international borders will protect him."

"Victoria is with him?" I asked quietly.

"She’s not a hostage, Elena," Dante replied without taking his eyes off the road. "She’s his co-conspirator. The moment the ledger went public and their assets were frozen, Victoria realized Julian’s ship was sinking. She tried to cut a deal behind his back to flee with the remaining bearer bonds, and Julian caught her. Now they’re fleeing together—hostages to each other's greed."

Ten minutes later, the Maybach breached the security perimeter of Farnborough airfield, crashing directly through a wooden barrier gate and speeding across the tarmac toward the private runway.

In the distance, bathed in the harsh white glare of floodlights, a sleek Gulfstream G650 executive jet sat with its engines idling, turbines whining at high pitch, ready for takeoff.

Dante slammed on the brakes, drifting the Maybach into a sharp spin that blocked the taxiway directly in front of the accelerating jet.