London was a city of ancient stones and modern betrayals. The gray fog rolled off the Thames, swallowing the black cabs and flickering streetlamps as our motorcade sped toward the Vance family's historic estate in Belgravia.
"My uncle, Silas Vance, has been running the European division for ten years," I said, leaning my head against the cool leather headrest of the armored Bentley. "He's a snake who dreams of wearing the crown. He thinks my three-year 'retirement' was a sign of weakness."
Darius was cleaning the blade of a stiletto, his movements rhythmic and lethal. He didn't look up, but his voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "Weakness is a matter of perspective, Elara. By the time I'm done with London, your uncle will realize that the only thing more dangerous than a Vance... is a Vance backed by a Blackwood."
He reached out, his large hand covering my thigh, his thumb tracing the edge of the surgical holster I never left home without. "Are you ready for the viper's nest?"
"I was born in it, Darius," I replied, a cold smile touching my lips.
The gates of the Vance estate swung open. This wasn't just a house; it was a castle. Inside, the grand hall was filled with the senior members of the Vance clan—men and women who controlled the price of oil, gold, and lives across three continents.
As we walked in, the whispers stopped. Every eye was on me—and the dark, imposing king standing by my side.
"Penelope," my uncle Silas said, standing at the head of the long oak table. He used my legal name, the one I hated. "We heard about your... dramatic activities in Paris. Blowing up national monuments? Consorting with underworld syndicates? You are a disgrace to the Vance name."
He gestured toward a tall, elegant woman sitting beside him—the High Priestess of the Shadow Council, though here she was known as Lady Vivienne, a respected philanthropist.
"The board has decided," Silas continued, his eyes glinting with greed. "Your mental stability is in question. We are moving for a vote to strip you of your inheritance and place the Vance Empire under my guardianship."
A few of the older cousins nodded in agreement, their faces masks of feigned concern.
I didn't argue. I didn't raise my voice. I simply walked to the center of the room, the sound of my heels echoing like a death knell.
"Consorting with syndicates?" I repeated, looking directly at Silas. "That's rich coming from a man who sold forty percent of our London shipping lanes to the Shadow Council to fund his gambling debt in Macau."
Silas blanched. "That's a lie! You have no proof!"
"I don't need proof," I said, leaning over the table, my shadow falling over him. "I am the Chairman of Vanguard Capital. I am the proof. I tracked the wire transfers through three dummy accounts before you even woke up this morning."
Vivienne, the High Priestess, stood up, her aura cold and suffocating. "Enough of this petty squabbling. Elara Vance, you cost the Council a masterpiece in Paris. You will pay that debt in blood."
She snapped her fingers, and four hidden assassins in the rafters dropped down, their silenced pistols aimed at my chest.
Before they could even pull their triggers, the heavy double doors of the hall were kicked off their hinges.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Four shots, four perfect headshots. Darius didn't even break his stride as he walked into the room, his smoking gun still raised. Behind him, the Ghost Unit poured in, subduing every guard in the hall within seconds.
Darius walked straight to the head of the table, grabbed Silas by the throat, and slammed him down onto the oak surface.
"You're in my wife's chair," Darius growled, the barrel of his gun pressing into Silas's ear.
He looked around the room at the terrified Vance elders, his eyes flashing with a predatory light.
"Let's make one thing clear to the Vance family," Darius announced, his voice booming through the hall. "Elara is the Queen of the Underworld and the Heiress to this Empire. If any of you so much as whisper a vote against her... I won't just take your shares. I'll take your tongues."
He looked back at Silas, a dark, terrifying smirk playing on his lips.
"Now, Silas. About those shipping lanes. Sign them over to my wife. Or I start removing your fingers one by one."
I stood beside Darius, crossing my arms, looking at my ruined uncle with the clinical gaze of the Living Yama.
"Choose quickly, Uncle," I whispered. "I brought my scalpels, but I didn't bring any anesthesia."