The interior of the Maybach was a sanctuary of silence and climate-controlled air, moving at eighty miles per hour down the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Francesco Lancaster sat in the back seat, his posture rigid. On the tablet resting on his knee, a video played on a loop.
It was a file sent to his private server three minutes ago by an anonymous source.
He watched Preston Carson-his nephew, the man he had entrusted with the merger agreement-turn his back on a woman begging for her life. He watched him choose the stepsister over the woman who was to be his aunt, the key to the entire Phelps-Lancaster merger.
Francesco felt a cold, hard knot form in his stomach. It wasn't pity. He didn't know Annelise Phelps well enough for pity. It was rage. A pure, distilled anger at the incompetence, the cowardice, the sheer messiness of it all. The Lancaster name was being dragged through the mud by a boy playing at being a man.
"Sir," Silas said from the front seat, his voice tight. "We have visual. The warehouse. It's... it's fully engulfed."
Francesco looked up. Through the tinted windshield, he saw the black plume of smoke rising against the gray sky. Orange flames licked the roof of the old shipyard building.
"Stop the car," Francesco ordered.
"Sir, the fire department is en route, the area isn't secure, your public profile-"
"I said stop the damn car."
The Maybach screeched to a halt fifty yards from the burning structure. Before the wheels had fully stopped turning, Francesco had his door open. He was aware of the risk, the catastrophic breach of the persona he'd spent years cultivating-the reclusive, broken man, unfit to lead. But the asset inside that fire was worth billions, and he wouldn't let his nephew's stupidity burn it to the ground.
The heat hit him like a physical blow. The air tasted of sulfur and burning timber. He ignored Silas shouting his name. He ignored the protocol that dictated the head of the Lancaster family should never put himself in harm's way.
He ran toward the side entrance, keeping to the shadows cast by the towering cranes, a ghost moving against the flickering light. The metal door hung off its hinges, warped by the heat. He kicked it open.
Smoke billowed out, thick and choking. He pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose and stepped into the hellscape.
"Annelise!" he roared.
The roar of the fire swallowed his voice. He squinted through the haze, his eyes stinging. To his left, a wooden pallet collapsed in a shower of sparks.
Then he saw her.
She was curled into a ball in the far corner, away from the main seat of the fire, but the flames were creeping closer. She wasn't moving.
Annelise heard the footsteps. They were heavy, confident. Not the frantic scuttle of a rescue worker, but the stride of a man who owned the ground he walked on. She held her breath. She let her body go completely limp, her muscles turning to water.
She felt hands on her. Strong hands. Fingers pressed against the pulse point of her neck.
She waited two beats, then let out a weak, ragged cough.
"I've got you," a deep voice rumbled. It vibrated against her chest.
A loud crack echoed above them. A support beam, eaten away by the fire, gave way.
Francesco didn't think. He reacted. He threw his body over hers, shielding her with his own back just as the burning wood crashed down.
Pain exploded across his shoulder blades. It was a searing, white-hot agony that stole the breath from his lungs. He grunted, a guttural sound of distress, but his arms didn't loosen around her. If anything, he held her tighter, pressing her face into his chest to protect her from the smoke.
Annelise's cheek was pressed against his shirt. She smelled the expensive fabric, the sandalwood cologne, and now, the acrid scent of scorched wool and skin. She felt the density of his chest muscles, the solid wall of his ribcage. He wasn't soft. The rumors of his frailty were lies. This body was forged in iron.
"We're moving," he gritted out.
He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing. He ran, stumbling slightly as the pain in his back flared, but he didn't stop until they burst out into the cool, gray afternoon.
Silas and two other bodyguards were there instantly, creating a human wall to block any potential sightlines. They reached for her.
"Get back!" Francesco snarled, his eyes wild.
Annelise decided this was the moment. She "woke up."
She started to thrash in his arms, letting out a high-pitched scream of pure panic. She clawed at his shirt, her nails raking over his chest, popping two buttons and scratching the skin beneath.
"No! No! Please!" she shrieked, her eyes wide and unseeing.
"Annelise! Look at me!" Francesco commanded. He didn't drop her. He tightened his grip, trapping her arms against her sides. "You are safe. I have you."
She stopped struggling. She blinked, focusing on his face. His jaw was clenched, soot smudged across his cheekbone. His eyes were dark, intense, and searching.
She shrank back, pressing herself into the leather of the car seat as he deposited her in the back of the Maybach. She looked at him with terror. Not gratitude. Terror. As if he were the monster, not the savior.
Francesco paused. He was used to people looking at him with fear, but usually, it was fear of his power. This was different. She looked at him like a wounded animal expecting another blow.
It irritated him. It intrigued him.
Paramedics rushed forward, but Annelise lunged, grabbing the lapel of Francesco's ruined jacket. Her knuckles turned white.
"Don't leave me," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please."
Francesco looked at the paramedics, then back at the woman clinging to him. He waved the medics away.
"Drive," he told Silas. "To the hospital. Now. And handle the fire department. No witnesses. No reports with my name on them. Understand?"
He climbed in beside her and slammed the door. The silence returned.
Annelise curled into the corner of the seat, hugging her knees. She was shaking again. Francesco watched her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pristine white handkerchief. He held it out to her.
She hesitated, then took it, wiping the soot from her face.
Francesco's gaze dropped to her wrists. The red, raw marks from the ropes were clearly visible against her pale skin. His eyes narrowed. The temperature in the car seemed to drop ten degrees.
Annelise lowered her lashes, hiding the calculation in her eyes. The bait was taken. The hook was set.
