Chapter 9
The battered black sedan crept back up the winding gravel driveway of the Sterling estate, its headlights switched off to avoid drawing the immediate attention of the roving security patrols. The storm clouds above had finally broken, unleashing a torrential downpour that lashed against the windshield and turned the manicured lawns into slick, muddy fields.
Clara sat in the passenger seat, the heavy black leather ledger resting heavily across her lap. Her hands were bruised, her black tank top was torn at the shoulder, and mud smeared the side of her face, but her eyes burned with an icy, unyielding focus.
“You’re walking right back into a hornets' nest,” the scarred man warned as he killed the engine beneath the heavy shadow of an oak tree near the front courtyard. “Arthur knows we survived the vault. The entire security detail will be armed and waiting at every entrance.”
“Let them wait,” Clara replied, popping her door open and stepping out into the driving rain. The cold water instantly soaked through her clothes, plastering her dark wavy hair to her cheeks, but she didn’t flinch. “Arthur invited the city’s elite to celebrate his dynasty. It’s only fair that someone stays to give them the eulogy.”
She marched across the gravel courtyard, bypassing the grand front entrance where the broken remnants of the wedding decorations lay scattered in the mud. Instead, she headed toward the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the east parlor, where the glowing lights and muffled sound of panicked voices indicated that the remaining guests were still being held hostage by their own fear.
The scarred man stepped out of the car, pulled his coat tighter around his neck, and fell into step beside her, his hand resting reassuringly near the heavy revolver concealed beneath his trench coat.
“If we do this, there’s no turning back,” he said quietly over the roar of the thunder. “Once those ledgers hit the public record, the Sterling empire falls apart overnight, but Arthur won’t go down quietly. He’ll burn everything to the ground first.”
“Then we’ll roast marshmallows in the ashes,” Clara answered without a trace of hesitation.
They reached the French doors of the east parlor. Clara didn’t bother knocking. She raised her boot and kicked the glass pane with all her might. The tempered glass shattered instantly with a deafening crash, showering the Persian rug inside with glittering shards.
Arthur Sterling, who was standing at the front of the room attempting to calm a circle of frantic investors, whipped his head around at the sound of the explosion. His face went completely white as he saw Clara stepping through the broken glass frame, soaked, bruised, and carrying the sacred ledger of his darkest sins.
“Security!” Arthur roared, his voice cracking with panic as he pointed a trembling finger at her. “Shoot her! Someone shoot her right now!”
Two private guards rushed forward from the hallway, drawing their sidearms, but before they could raise their weapons, the scarred man stepped through the shattered frame behind Clara, leveling his heavy revolver squarely at their chests.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man said smoothly, cocking the hammer of his gun with a loud, distinct click that silenced the entire room. “Unless you want your boss’s final moments broadcast live to every federal agency in the country.”
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Clara stepped past the paralyzed guards, walking slowly and deliberately toward the center of the room where Arthur stood cornered against the mahogany mantelpiece. She slammed the heavy black ledger down onto the table right in front of him, the loud thud echoing like a gavel in a courtroom.
“The wedding is officially over, Arthur,” Clara said, her voice ringing out clearly across the silent parlor. “Now, let’s talk about murder.”
