Thirty Years of Lies

"Let him go, Vincent."

The voice belonged to Marcus Vance—Arthur’s chief of security and the man who had managed Vincent’s personal protective details for over a decade. Marcus stood near the entrance, holding a black Glock leveled straight at the center of Vincent’s chest.

Vincent didn't even flinch. He didn't drop Arthur. He slowly turned his head to look at Marcus, a dark, dangerous smirk touching the corner of his mouth.

"Ah," Vincent murmured. "The cleanup crew. I wondered when you would show your true colors, Marcus."

Marcus’s face was a mask of cold professionalism, though sweat beaded along his hairline. "I respect you, Mr. Kane. You built an incredible empire. But Mr. Sterling’s interests are my primary mandate. Drop him, and walk away from this room. We can pretend this evening never happened."

"And if I don't?" Vincent asked quietly.

"Then I pull the trigger," Marcus said without hesitation. "And the official report will state that a deranged intruder infiltrated the gala and had to be neutralized."

Arthur, still pinned against the mahogany pillar by Vincent’s left hand, let out a wet, desperate cough. "Kill him, Marcus! Do it now before he ruins us!"

Vincent looked down at Arthur, then back at the gun barrel pointed at his heart. He let out a slow, measured breath.

"You think a gun is going to stop me, Marcus?" Vincent asked softly. "You think men who hide behind nursing home secrets and forged death certificates know what real violence looks like?"

Before Marcus could squeeze the trigger, Clara moved with astonishing speed. She lunged forward, grabbing a heavy silver champagne bucket filled with melting ice and hurled it directly at Marcus’s face.

The heavy metal bucket struck Marcus squarely in the shoulder, throwing his aim off by a fraction of a second.

Bang!

A deafening gunshot shattered the vaulted glass ceiling, sending a shower of crystal shards raining down over the marble floor.

In that single split second of distraction, Vincent released Arthur, dropped low, and drove his fist upward into Marcus’s jaw with bone-crushing force. Marcus flew backward, his firearm skidding across the polished floor before he crashed unconscious against the wall.

Vincent didn't pause. He spun back around, but Arthur was already scrambling toward the private exit doors at the side of the stage, clutching his cane, fleeing into the labyrinthine back corridors of the mansion.

"Clara, stay here," Vincent commanded, wiping a speck of dust from his sleeve.

"Where are you going?" Clara asked, her voice tight with anxiety.