You’ll only embarrass me wearing that dress.

Hypothermia was a creeping poison, but Ethan Vance refused to die in an Italian lake.

Using the surviving tactical flotation pack, Ethan dragged Phoebe through three hundred yards of freezing water, hauling her ashore onto the jagged rocks of a secluded cove bordering the rear gardens of Villa Bellissima.

Both of them were soaked to the bone, shivering violently, their skin pale as marble under the moonlight. Ethan collapsed onto the gravel, coughing up dark water, his forehead bleeding freely from the shrapnel wound.

Phoebe scrambled to his side, tearing off a strip of her thermal undershirt to press against his bleeding temple. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably from the biting cold, but her focus was laser-sharp.

"Ethan... stay with me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Look at me."

Ethan gripped her wrist, his dark eyes focusing on hers through the pain. A faint, defiant smirk touched his blue lips. "I told you... Harrell... you're not getting rid of me that easily."

He pushed himself up, leaning against a cypress tree. From the waterproof holster at his hip, he drew his tactical sidearm. It was dripping with lake water, but the chamber was clean. He racked the slide.

"Nikolai and the backup team are regrouping on the eastern perimeter," Ethan said, his breathing shallow but controlled. "Local Italian police won't touch this estate—Eleanor owns the regional prefecture. It's just us."

"Good," Phoebe said, stripping off her waterlogged outer coat. Beneath it, her black combat trousers and tactical sweater clung to her lean frame. She picked up a suppressed automatic pistol from a downed guard’s belt near the perimeter fence. "I don't want anyone else in the room when I look her in the eye."

They slipped through the wrought-iron service gate, bypassing the disabled motion sensors. The garden was a masterpiece of neoclassical landscaping—marble statues of Roman emperors, cascading fountains, and towering hedges pruned with razor-like geometric perfection.

Silence hung over the estate, broken only by the distant lapping of the lake against the seawall.

The French doors leading into the grand salon were unlocked. In fact, they were wide open, spilling warm, golden light across the stone patio.

Inside, the fire crackled warmly in a massive stone hearth. A classical symphony by Vivaldi played softly from concealed speakers. On a grand mahogany table sat two steaming cups of Earl Grey tea, alongside an assortment of delicate French pastries.

Sitting in an antique velvet armchair by the fire, wearing a shimmering champagne-colored silk dressing gown, was Eleanor Harrell.

Standing behind her, casually sipping a glass of vintage Barolo, was Julian Vance. His hair was dry, his clothes immaculate, watching his shivering, bloodied half-brother enter with amused contempt.

"You really should change out of those wet clothes, darling," Eleanor spoke smoothly, not even turning her head as Phoebe and Ethan stepped through the doors, guns raised. "Pneumonia is such an unglamorous way to die."

Ethan’s weapon snapped instantly to Julian’s forehead. "Move an inch, Julian, and I'll finish what the Thames started."

Julian chuckled softly, raising his wine glass in a mock salute. "Still so violent, Ethan. Still father's obedient little bulldog. You inherited his fortune, his name, his company... and yet, here you are, crawling through the mud for a woman whose own mother despised her enough to erase her."

"Shut your mouth," Ethan growled, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Ethan, wait," Phoebe said, her voice commanding, cutting through the tension.

Phoebe stepped forward into the center of the lavish salon, her dripping boots leaving dark wet prints across the priceless Persian rug. She lowered her weapon, letting it hang loosely by her side as she stared at the woman sitting in the armchair.

Eleanor turned her head slowly, looking Phoebe up and down with critical, appraising eyes.

"You look dreadful, Phoebe," Eleanor remarked with a sigh, setting her teacup down on the silver saucer. "The hair, the water, the lack of composure. You'll only embarrass me looking like a drowned rat."

The exact phrase.

The words echoed in Phoebe's ears, dragging her back across twenty years of childhood trauma, back to the grand galas where Eleanor would slap her small hands away from dresses that weren't deemed perfect, where Eleanor would lock her in dark dressing rooms until she learned to smile without showing pain.

Phoebe didn't flinch. A slow, chilling smile touched her lips.

"Is that the best you have, Mother?" Phoebe whispered. "Twenty-five years in exile, hiding behind dead identities and stolen Russian money, and you're still obsessing over appearances?"

Eleanor’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, predatory sharpness. She stood up, her silk gown trailing behind her like a queen’s mantle.

"Exile?" Eleanor laughed, a bitter, melodic sound. "I didn't exile myself, you foolish girl. I ascended! Look around you. Look at the power I wield! While your father was groveling before Wall Street banks and begging for quarterly credit lines, I built an empire that moves governments! I control the debt of nations!"

She walked toward Phoebe, stopping just three feet away. The resemblance between them was terrifying—two generations of Harrell women, beautiful, lethal, and carved from stone.

"I didn't leave because I hated you, Phoebe," Eleanor said softly, reaching out a manicured, jewel-encrusted hand toward Phoebe's cheek. "I left because your father would have made you weak. He would have turned you into another sentimental, bleeding-heart Harrell. I left so you would grow hungry. And look at you now. You broke Paisley. You humiliated Montgomery. You took back the board."

Eleanor smiled, her eyes glittering with dark pride.