MY CRUEL BILLIONAIRE HUSBAND DEMANDED ME AS A WAR TROPHY, BUT WHEN HE TORE OFF MY WEDDING DRESS ON OUR WEDDING NIGHT, HE DISCOVERED THE SICKENING SECRET MY BROTHER TRIED TO BURY ALIVE!

The private vault room beneath the Manhattan Republic Bank was located three stories underground, encased in five feet of reinforced steel and guarded by private security contractors.

At nine o'clock sharp, the heavy titanium door clicked open. The bank manager, sweating profusely under Roman’s intimidating stare, bowed and quickly exited the room, leaving Roman and me alone inside the sterile, fluorescent-lit vault.

I approached Box 414. I placed my right thumb against the biometric scanner. The light turned from red to green with a soft chime. I inserted the small brass key I had kept hidden inside my locket for three years and turned it clockwise.

The metal door swung open.

Inside lay a single, black leather-bound journal filled with handwritten dates, cargo shipping codes, offshore bank routing numbers, and encrypted radio transcripts from the night Michael Caruso was murdered.

I pulled the journal out and handed it to Roman.

Roman stood beneath the harsh vault lights, slowly flipping through the pages. As he read Grant’s handwriting detailing the explosive yields, the Canadian syndicate contacts, and the exact coordinates of the Brooklyn warehouse bombing, the veins in Roman’s neck bulged with suppressed fury.

"It's all here," Roman said, his voice deadly quiet. "Every transaction. Every traitor in the harbor police who took a bribe to look the other way. Every dollar Grant laundered to pay the hitmen."

"It's enough to send Grant to federal prison for the rest of his life," I said. "And more importantly, it's enough for the Five Families Commission to sanction his execution under the underworld laws."

Roman closed the book with a heavy snap. "Prison is too easy for Grant. He doesn't deserve a warm cell and three meals a day while you carry his scars for the rest of your life."

Roman pulled out his phone and dialed a secure number.

"Don Antonio," Roman spoke into the receiver, addressing the elderly chairman of the New York Syndicate Commission. "I have the definitive proof regarding Michael's assassination. The Mercer family was not behind the order—Grant Mercer acted alone in treason against the entire harbor alliance. I am calling an emergency tribunal at the Brooklyn Navy Yard at eight tonight."

There was a brief pause on the line before a raspy, aged voice replied: "If the evidence is genuine, Roman, the Mercer bloodline will be stripped of all titles, and Grant Mercer will be handed over to you for judgment. Bring the ledger."

"He will be there," Roman said, ending the call.

Roman turned to me, tucking the ledger inside his coat. "Grant is currently hiding inside his penthouse at the Baccarat Hotel, surrounded by private security. He thinks his mercenary attack bought him time to flee the country on a private jet to Zurich at midnight."

"What are we going to do?" I asked.

Roman reached out, taking my face in his strong hands, his eyes softening as he looked into mine. "We aren't going to chase him, Evelyn. We're going to make him walk right into the lion's den himself."

"How?"

"We leak the information that you survived the raid and that you're delivering the ledger to the Brooklyn terminal alone to trade it for your freedom," Roman explained. "Grant's ego and cowardice will force him to come in person to ensure you don't speak to the Commission. When he arrives, he won't find a helpless sister waiting to beg for mercy."