Chapter 3 - The Collapse of the Prescotts
Camera flashes exploded like strobe lights. Reporters who had sneaked into the back of the hall shouted over one another, thrusting microphones forward.
Daniel looked at his mother, horror dawning in his eyes. ""Mom... you hit her? You struck Claire?""
""Don't be ridiculous, Daniel!"" Evelyn lied frantically, her voice pitching into an ugly, defensive shriek. ""She's lying! Both of them are lying! They're con artists! They fabricated these papers to steal our name and our wealth!""
""Con artists?""
A cold, clipped voice cut through the shouting.
The heavy mahogany doors at the back of the ballroom swung wide open. Marcus Vance strode into the hall, flanked by his two armed operatives. The hundred-plus guests parted instantly, terrified by the unmistakable aura of danger surrounding the newcomers.
Marcus didn't look at the politicians, the judges, or the corporate titans. His cold, dead eyes were fixed entirely on Claire.
""Well, well, well,"" Marcus said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face as he stopped thirty feet away from Richard and Claire. ""Twenty-one years we’ve searched every continent for the little princess of Vance International. And here she is, hiding behind an old soldier and a bunch of socialites.""
Richard instantly stepped in front of Claire, his right hand slipping smoothly beneath the lapel of his tailored navy suit, resting against the grip of a concealed combat pistol.
""Step back, Marcus,"" Richard warned quietly. ""You're outside your jurisdiction.""
""Jurisdiction?"" Marcus laughed, a harsh, grating sound. ""Old man, there are no jurisdictions left. The moment you opened that envelope, the digital ping went straight to our mainframe. Vance International's remaining assets belong to us, and the girl belongs to the Syndicate.""
Daniel tried to step between Marcus and Claire, his protective instinct finally kicking in. ""Stay away from her! You have no right—""
Crack.
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Before Daniel could finish his sentence, one of Marcus's operatives drew a suppressed pistol and fired downward. The bullet shattered the polished marble floor a mere inch from Daniel's Italian leather shoes. Daniel yelped, stumbling backward into a stack of champagne flutes that crashed down in a shower of glass.
""Move again, boy,"" the operative snarled, ""and the next one goes through your knee.""
