Chapter 4 - Steel and Shadows
The click of Marcus’s jacket lining parting was unmistakable. It was the sound of a gun being unholstered.
Veronica didn't scream, and she didn't run. She knew that in a game of speed against a trained enforcer in a hallway, she would lose. Instead, her eyes darted to the heavy brass desk lamp beside her and the stack of thick leather-bound ledgers beneath it.
“You think Rory won’t find out?” Veronica asked, keeping her voice eerily calm to buy herself precious seconds. “You think he won't tear this entire estate apart looking for who helped Susan?”
Marcus paused, his hand halting on the grip of his weapon. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his features. “Susan? So you saw the manifest. Impressive for a girl who’s supposed to be changing sheets.”
“Susan doesn't have the technical expertise to rig a military-grade neural disrupter,” Veronica countered, shifting her weight slightly onto her back foot. “She’s a puppet. You’re the one pulling the strings, Marcus. You manage the estate’s logistics. You’re the one who cleared the delivery through the gates without scanning it.”
Marcus let out a low, cold chuckle. “Susan wanted to rattle Rory, to prove he was losing his grip on his empire so the board would force him out. She thought a little psychological pressure would make him step down as head of the family syndicate. But me? I realized that if you break a man from the inside, you don't just get his seat on the board... you get everything.”
He raised the barrel of the silenced pistol, aiming directly at Veronica’s chest. “A pity. You were good at changing sheets.”
Before Marcus could pull the trigger, the library doors didn't just open—they exploded inward, splintering into a thousand pieces of flying mahogany.
Rory Starks stood in the wreckage, his massive frame silhouetted against the hallway light. His face was a mask of unmitigated fury, his eyes burning with the cold, lethal wrath of a man whose world had just been threatened. In each hand, he held a heavy-calibre automatic pistol, the barrels still warm from the armory check.
Marcus whipped around, trying to swing his weapon toward Rory, but he was a fraction of a second too slow.
Bang.
The silenced shot echoed like a heavy thud in the confined space. Marcus’s pistol slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor as he staggered backward, clutching his right shoulder where a neat, crimson hole was blooming through his tailored suit.
Marcus hit the floor hard, gasping for air, his face pale with shock.
Rory walked forward, his boots crushing the splintered wood of the doorway. He didn't look at Marcus as a boss talking to a disloyal employee; he looked at him like a butcher eyeing a slab of spoiled meat.
“You touched my daughters,” Rory said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it vibrated with terrifying intensity.
“Rory—wait—listen to me—it was business—Susan wanted—” Marcus choked out, pressing his hand against his bleeding shoulder.
“Business?” Rory cut him off, leveling the barrel of his gun directly between Marcus’s eyes. “You brought a weapon into my nursery. You made my little girls scream in the dark for two months. There is no business left for you, Marcus.”
Veronica stepped out from behind the desk, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “Don't kill him here, Mr. Starks,” she said quickly, stepping into Rory’s line of sight. “If you kill him in the house, it stays messy. And we still need to find out where Susan is hiding.”
Rory looked down at Veronica, the dark storm in his eyes slowly receding, replaced by a strange, sharp clarity. He lowered his gun by an inch.
“Smart girl,” Rory muttered. He looked back at Marcus and motioned with his head toward two armed guards who had finally come running down the corridor, drawn by the sound of the shot. “Take him down to the lower holding cells. Strip him, lock him in, and call my private physician. I want him kept alive—for now.”
As the guards hauled the groaning chief of staff away, leaving a dark trail of blood across the Persian rug, Rory turned his full attention to Veronica.
“You,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “You’ve got a lot of nerve standing up to a man with a gun.”
“I used to work in the psychiatric ward of Bellevue,” Veronica replied, holding her ground. “A gun is just loud. People who are cornered are much scarier.”
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A faint, humorless ghost of a smile touched Rory’s lips. He reached out and placed a heavy, reassuring hand on her shoulder—an unprecedented gesture from a man who trusted no one.
“Pack a bag, Veronica,” Rory said, his voice turning cold and resolute. “We’re taking a trip to visit my sister.”
