Chapter 10
Three weeks later, the first heavy snow of November began to fall over the Hudson Valley.
The Cross estate had settled into a quiet, peaceful routine that felt entirely foreign to its grand, stone walls.
Emily had moved into the east wing of the master suite.
She no longer wore the simple cotton skirts and aprons of a housekeeper.
She wore soft cashmere sweaters, elegant dark trousers, and carried herself with an easy, quiet grace that commanded the respect of every guard on the perimeter.
She had spent the last three weeks organizing the estate’s extensive art collection, working alongside Adrian in his study, and learning the legitimate side of Cross Maritime’s international trade.
The criminal syndicate was slowly, methodically being restructured.
With the Vance master ledger locked inside Adrian’s personal subterranean vault, no rival family dared raise a hand against them.
The peace was absolute, paid for in blood and sealed with iron.
At eight o’clock on a Friday evening, the study fire crackled warmly against the chill of the falling snow outside.
Adrian stood by the tall arched windows, dressed in a charcoal suit, watching the white flakes drift down over the dark pine forest.
A crystal tumbler of scotch rested in his hand.
Emily sat at the mahogany desk behind him, reviewing shipping manifests for a new terminal expansion in Boston.
She looked up, a faint smile playing on her lips as she watched the broad, powerful silhouette of the man she had come to love.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she said, her voice smooth and teasing.
Adrian turned around, a gentle smile softening the hard planes of his face.
“I was just thinking about the first time I met you four years ago,” he said, taking a slow sip of his drink.
Emily laughed, a bright, musical sound that filled the room.
“I dropped an entire silver tray of tea cups in the hallway because you walked around the corner without making a sound.”
“I thought you were the most terrifying human being I had ever seen.”
“And now?” Adrian asked, stepping toward the desk with amused eyes.
Emily leaned her chin in her hands, her hazel eyes dancing with warmth.
“Now I know you just need to be reminded when to eat dinner and when to go to sleep.”
Adrian set his glass down on the desk, leaned over the mahogany surface, and pressed a tender kiss to her lips.
“You’re getting bold, Genevieve,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Emily,” she corrected softly, kissing him again.
“I like Emily much better.”
Adrian was about to pull her out of the chair when the heavy black telephone on the center of the desk began to ring.
Not his corporate line.
Not his security line.
It was the secure, hard-wired red landline that had been installed in the wall thirty years ago by Arthur Cross.
It was an analog, un-tappable direct connection that had only one linked terminal in the entire world:
The old, abandoned offshore communication relay in the North Atlantic that Vincent Vance had built during the Cold War.
That line had been completely dead for ten years.
Adrian froze.
His smile vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp dread that paralyzed the room.
Emily looked at the ringing phone, her face draining of color as she recognized the specific, harsh tone of the ancient ringer.
“Adrian...” she breathed, her voice trembling.
“That line... only my father had that frequency.”
The phone rang a second time.
Loud.
Persistent.
Demanding.
Adrian reached out slowly, his fingers wrapping around the heavy black receiver.
He lifted it to his ear, his heart pounding with a sudden, violent resurgence of ancient fears.
He didn't speak.
He just listened.
Through the receiver came the faint, crackling hiss of static from a long-distance radio relay across cold ocean water.
Then came the sound of breathing.
Deep, slow, mechanical breathing, accompanied by the faint, rhythmic beep of a hospital heart monitor.
Then, a voice spoke through the line.
A voice that was older, raspier, and scarred by smoke, but utterly unmistakable to both Adrian Cross and Genevieve Vance.
“Hello, Adrian,” the voice rasped through the static.
“You did a magnificent job taking out Dominic Russo.”
“Just like I trained you to do.”
Adrian stopped breathing entirely, his knuckles turning dead white around the receiver.
“Vincent?” Adrian whispered, the name tearing from his throat like broken glass.
Emily gasped, standing up so violently her chair tipped backward, crashing onto the Persian rug.
The voice on the other end chuckled—a low, terrifying, familiar rumble that chilled Adrian to his absolute core.
“Tell my daughter I’m coming home,” Vincent Vance said.
“And tell her to keep the ledger warm.”
“We have a world to take back.”
The line went dead with a sharp, final click.
Outside the window, the snow continued to fall silently into the dark, swallowing the frozen woods in an endless, suffocating white.
Adrian slowly lowered the receiver, his dark eyes meeting Emily’s terrified, unblinking gaze across the desk.
May you like
The fire in the hearth crackled loudly.
And in the silence of the great stone house, neither of them moved.
