The cool night air hit me, refreshing and crisp. A sleek, black, armored SUV was
idling by the curb. Standing by the rear door was Marcus, my head of security.
He was a retired federal agent, one of the men who had breached my front door
three years ago. He had resigned from the bureau to work for me full-time.
Marcus opened the heavy door for me. But before I climbed in, he reached into
his suit jacket and handed me a thick, sealed manila dossier.
“Ma’am,” Marcus whispered respectfully, his eyes sharp and serious. “The private
investigative team you funded in Chicago just sent this over.”
I took the heavy file, weighing it in my hands. “What is it?”
“We found another corporate embezzlement ring. A massive one,” Marcus replied,
his jaw tightening. “They are targeting grieving widows in the tri-state area.
Siphoning life insurance policies through shell companies while the women are
busy planning funerals. They are deeply entrenched. The local authorities are
too slow. The ringleaders are arrogant, Clara. They think no one is watching.”
I looked down at the dossier. The familiar, cold, kinetic energy—the same energy
that had flooded my veins the day I opened the black folder in my living
room—began to hum beneath my skin.
A slow, predatory smile touched my lips. It wasn’t the smile of a victim. It was
the smile of an apex predator who had just caught the scent of blood in the
water.
I slid into the luxurious leather backseat of the SUV, tossing the thick dossier
onto the seat next to me.
“Let them think that,” I murmured into the darkness of the cabin, my eyes
flashing with dark, unyielding purpose. “Start the car, Marcus. It’s time to go
to work.”
