The next chapter reveals what happens next—keep reading.

The digital clock on the dashboard of the Ford Econoline read 3:42 AM. Carla Bennett sat hunched over the steering wheel, her breath pluming in tiny white clouds against the cold glass of the windshield. Every second felt like an hour. Her mind raced between thoughts of her sleeping daughter back at the estate and the terrifying reality of what her cousin was discovering inside the toxicology lab upstairs.

Suddenly, two blinding shafts of white light cut through the dim gloom of the subterranean loading dock.

Carla gasped, throwing her arm up to shield her eyes from the glare.

A sleek, matte-black Mercedes SUV had descended the ramp into the loading bay with terrifying speed, its heavy tires crunching loudly over the wet concrete. The vehicle slid to an abrupt, aggressive halt directly behind the Econoline, blocking the exit ramp completely. The engine roared, and the high-beam headlights locked onto the van like searchlights on a prison yard fence.

Carla’s heart plummeted into her stomach. They found me.

The doors of the Mercedes flew open simultaneously. Two heavily armed men in sharp black suits stepped out into the damp air, their jackets pulled back to reveal the sleek contours of Heckler & Koch submachine guns tucked into shoulder holsters. But it wasn't the hired goons that made Carla’s blood freeze—it was the man who stepped out from the passenger side.

Dean Foster.

He adjusted his tailored gray suit jacket with effortless grace, his cold, calculating eyes fixed entirely on the driver's side window of the utility van. A faint, razor-thin smile played across his lips as he strolled forward, his leather shoes clicking against the wet pavement.

Inside the van, Carla’s hands shook so violently she could barely turn the ignition key. She slammed the key into the cylinder and twisted it hard. The engine sputtered, coughed, and died. She tried again. Nothing. The starter motor whined pathetically against the cold morning air.

Click.

The driver's side window of the van shattered into a thousand glittering diamonds as the butt of a heavy pistol smashed through the safety glass. Before Carla could scream, a gloved hand reached through the jagged opening, unlocked the door from the inside, and dragged her violently out onto the cold concrete floor.

"Well, well, well," Dean murmured, stepping closer and looking down at her with mock disappointment. "Our hardworking head housekeeper taking a little road trip to Manhattan at three in the morning. And here I thought you were just devoted to your cleaning duties, Carla."

"I... I had to pick up medical supplies," Carla stammered, her voice shaking with terror as one of the guards pinned her arms roughly behind her back. "Please! Let me go! My daughter... Nina is back at the estate!"

Dean’s smile vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, chilling mask of absolute menace. He crouched down until his face was inches from hers, the smell of expensive cologne and cold autumn air washing over her.

"Nina is a very sweet child," Dean whispered softly, his voice sending a shiver straight down her spine. "It would be an absolute tragedy if something happened to her because her mother couldn't mind her own business. Now... where is the pill, Carla? The one your little girl picked up in the library?"

Carla’s eyes widened in horror. They knew. They had known the entire time. Every step she had taken, every move she had made, had been monitored by the invisible web of surveillance operating inside the Rinaldi estate.

Before Carla could answer, the heavy steel service doors behind them burst open with a loud metallic crash. Tom stood on the threshold, a white lab printout clutched tightly in his hand, his face pale with panic.

"Carla, I ran the test—!" Tom shouted, stopping dead in his tracks as he saw the armed men and Dean Foster standing over his cousin.