The Mafia Boss Slapped His Wife for His Mistress—By Sunrise, She Was Gone Without a Trace

The convoy of six heavy SUVs cut through the mountain pass like black wolves hunting in the dark.

The rain had returned as they climbed into the higher elevations, turning from cold mist into driving sleet that hammered against the armored windshields.

Beckett sat in the lead passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the winding strip of asphalt ahead.

The dashboard radio buzzed with scrambled chatter from his scouts who had pushed ahead into the Vance syndicate’s private territory.

Julian Vance owned five thousand acres of dense pine forest in the Adirondacks, centered around a fortress-like stone lodge built during the Gilded Age.

It was where Julian took his high-value hostages, his dirty money, and the people he intended to disappear from the earth.

"Scouts report heavy activity at the main gate," Pierce said from the back seat, tapping his tablet furiously.

"Julian just arrived twenty minutes ago."

"He has at least thirty men on the property, all armed with automatic rifles."

"They know about the bank accounts, Boss."

"Julian’s private line blew up thirty minutes ago when his Swiss accounts were frozen."

"He knows she took him."

"Step on it," Beckett ordered the driver, his voice flat and deadly.

"Don't worry about the tires."

"Just get us through those gates."

Up ahead, the dense pines parted to reveal the massive wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate.

Two black pickup trucks were parked across the driveway, their headlights blinding as Beckett’s convoy rounded the curve.

Four men in tactical gear stepped out into the road, raising carbines to signal the approaching vehicles to halt.

"Ram them," Beckett said without blinking.

"Boss?" the driver asked, his hands tightening on the wheel.

"I said ram them."

The driver slammed his foot down.

The supercharged engine of the lead SUV screamed as the three-ton armored vehicle surged forward at seventy miles per hour.

The guards in the road fired a desperate burst of gunfire that shattered harmlessly against the bulletproof glass before they dove into the ditches.

The SUV struck the center of the iron gates and the parked pickups with a deafening crash of tearing steel and exploding safety glass.

The heavy gates tore free from their stone pillars, spinning into the dark like twisted toys.

Beckett’s convoy blasted through the wreckage without losing momentum, tires tearing up the gravel drive as they roared toward the grand stone lodge three hundred yards uphill.

Gunfire erupted from the second-story balconies of the lodge almost immediately.

Muzzle flashes lit up the dark mountain night like strobe lights.

"Move! Move! Suppressive fire on the balconies!" Pierce shouted into his radio as the convoy slid to a halt in the circular motor court.

Doors flew open, and Beckett’s men poured out, returning fire with synchronized, military precision.

Beckett did not take cover.

He stepped out into the hail of ricocheting bullets, holding his .45 at his side as if he were walking through his own garden.

A guard stepped around the corner of the stone portico, leveling a shotgun at Beckett’s chest.

Beckett raised his arm and fired twice through the mist.

The guard collapsed instantly.

Beckett climbed the grand stone steps of the terrace, his men clearing the perimeter behind him with brutal efficiency.

The heavy oak front doors of the lodge were already unlocked.

Inside, the great room was a cavern of vaulted timber, polished river stone, and flickering firelight from a massive fireplace.

Standing in the center of the room, looking immaculate despite the gunfire tearing the exterior of his home to pieces, was Julian Vance.

Julian held an antique silver revolver pointed casually toward the floor.

His silk tie was slightly loosened, and a crystal tumbler of whiskey sat on the table beside him.

"You're late, Beckett," Julian said, his smooth voice echoing above the sound of breaking glass outside.

"Where is she?" Beckett demanded, raising his gun until the black barrel aligned directly between Julian’s eyes.

Julian smiled, a cold, mocking expression that made Beckett’s finger itch against the trigger.

"Do you honestly think she’s here?" Julian asked, taking a sip from his glass.

"Do you really think a woman like Laurel would let herself be trapped in a hunting lodge by a man she outsmarted three weeks ago?"

Beckett stepped closer, his jaw aching from the pressure of his clenched teeth.

"What did you do to her, Julian?"

"Me?" Julian laughed, a sharp, barking sound.

"I didn't do anything to her, Beckett."

"She used me."

"She used my safe house, she used my private runway in Plattsburgh, and she used my pilot to fly to an undisclosed destination three hours ago."

"She left me with forty million dollars in frozen assets and a federal indictment waiting for me in Manhattan on Monday morning."

Julian set his glass down with a heavy thud and looked at Beckett with genuine, burning hatred.

"She didn't just leave you, Shaw."

"She burned both of us to the ground."

"She took everything I had and left me holding the bag for every shipment you ever ran through my territory."

Beckett lowered his gun a fraction of an inch, the sheer scale of Laurel’s vengeance finally revealing itself in its terrifying entirety.

She hadn't allied with Julian.

She had set Julian up as the scapegoat.

She had funneled Beckett’s dirty money through Julian’s accounts, creating a paper trail so toxic that the federal government would spend the next five years tearing Julian Vance’s empire apart brick by brick.

She had eliminated Beckett’s greatest rival without firing a single bullet.

"Where did the plane go?" Beckett asked, his voice shaking with a terrible mixture of awe and grief.

"Ask your own lieutenant," Julian said, his eyes shifting past Beckett’s shoulder toward Pierce Rowan, who was standing in the doorway with his weapon drawn.

Beckett slowly turned his head to look at his lifelong friend.

Pierce did not lower his gun.

He did not look at Julian.

He looked directly at Beckett, and for the first time in twenty years, there was no deference in Pierce Rowan’s eyes.

Only exhaustion.

"Pierce?" Beckett breathed.