Thirty-two weeks pregnant, I stood beside the fireplace at my husband’s family Christmas party while sixty guests filled the Dre estate outside Greenwich,

By eight in the morning, the dense mountain fog had rolled down across Lake Geneva, cloaking the Old Town in a shroud of white mist.

Henri had survived—grazed by shrapnel, but alive—and met us at the lakeside docks with an unassuming gray Mercedes sedan with diplomatic plates. By the time we crossed the Pont du Mont-Blanc into the historic banking quarter of Geneva, the city was waking up to the muted hum of morning traffic.

Banque Privée de Genève looked less like a financial institution and more like a medieval cathedral of granite and brass. Armed guards in tailored suits stood behind bullet-resistant glass, their gazes sweeping over every pedestrian who approached the heavy revolving doors.

Eleanor walked with her head held high, leaning lightly on Julian’s arm, while I carried Maya wrapped securely in an alpaca blanket. The dirt and cordite from the chateau had been washed away in a quiet petrol station restroom, but the cold fire in our eyes could not be disguised.

"Madame Claire," the elderly bank manager bowed deeply as we entered the inner private sanctum on the third subterranean level. "It has been many years. We received your secure telegraph from Montreux."

"Open Vault 14, Monsieur Mercier," Eleanor said without preamble. "My daughter, Elena Vance, has come to execute the Claire Covenant."

The vault doors were massive—eighteen inches of hardened Swiss steel that required two simultaneous digital keycards, Eleanor's brass key, and a biometric scan of my right hand.

When the tumblers finally dropped with a heavy, reverberating *clonk*, the reinforced door swung outward on oiled hinges, revealing a room lined with deep mahogany shelves and steel lockboxes.

Monsieur Mercier retrieved Box 14-A and set it upon the green felt of the viewing table before politely stepping outside and closing the soundproof privacy door.

Julian stood guard at the door, his eyes darting toward the security feed on his phone. "Boyd just checked in. Swiss federal police intercepted the SUV outside Montreux. Three mercenaries dead, two captured. They were carrying payroll stubs from an account registered to a holding company in the Caymans."

"The Caymans?" I asked, looking up as Eleanor turned the cylinder on Box 14-A. "Matthias didn't use the Caymans. He used Luxembourg."

"Because it wasn't Matthias," Eleanor said darkly, lifting the heavy steel lid.

Inside rested stacks of aged parchment tied with ribbon, beside three thick, leather-bound ledgers stamped with the crest of House Dre. But on top of the ledgers lay a fresh, white envelope, sealed with black wax.

My breath hitched. The wax was stamped with a monogram I recognized instantly—the intertwining letters *J.M.*

Julian froze. His gaze locked onto the black wax, the color draining completely from his face.