Chapter 8
"Are you attempting to barter with me, Winona?" Eamon asked, his voice smooth and deadly. He didn't look at the crowd of guests; he kept his predatory focus entirely on his aunt.
"I'm telling you the truth!" Winona sobbed, her luxurious gown looking ridiculous against her pathetic posture. "I couldn't have pulled the medical records. I don't have that kind of access! Someone inside the clinic provided the template. Someone who knows the family archives better than I do!"
Eamon’s jaw tightened. The implication was clear. Winona was too arrogant and careless to execute a flawless forgery on her own—proven by her failure to check the date against the doctor's death. She was a puppet. A loud, flashy distraction orchestrated by someone far more calculating.
"Who gave you the document?" Eamon asked, his deep voice leaving no room for negotiation.
Winona opened her mouth, her eyes darting toward a group of older men standing near the back of the banquet hall. But before she could speak a single name, a sudden, sharp sound echoed from the far end of the room.
The heavy oak doors to the gallery burst open.
Four men in tactical gear, their faces obscured by dark masks, stormed into the bright, airy room. They didn't shout. They didn't announce their intentions. They moved with terrifying, professional silence, raising suppressed submachine guns.
The sixty guests screamed in unison, the cinematic elegance of the party instantly erupting into absolute chaos. Women in high heels dove beneath the linen-draped tables; men in expensive suits scrambled for the exits, shattering crystal glasses and knocking over the tall brass candelabras.
Eamon reacted with explosive speed. The moment the doors opened, his survival instincts kicked in. He didn't reach for his weapon—he didn't have time.
He spun around, grabbing Oriana by the waist. He hauled her violently against his chest and threw them both backward, diving behind the thick, solid mahogany of the main banquet table just as the first volley of suppressed gunfire ripped through the room.
The bullets shattered the crystal chandeliers above them. Glass rained down like deadly, glittering snow, plunging sections of the room into shadow.
"Stay down!" Eamon roared over the screams, covering Oriana’s body entirely with his own, shielding her from the shrapnel and flying debris.
Oriana squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face into his stained suit. Her hands gripped his lapels with white-knuckled terror. She could hear the muffled thwip-thwip of the suppressed weapons tearing through the furniture around them.
Eamon peered over the edge of the table. Through the chaos, he saw the masked men were not firing wildly into the crowd. They were executing a targeted sweep.
They were moving directly toward Winona.
"Help me!" Winona screamed, crawling across the marble floor, her broken arm dragging uselessly beside her. She looked toward her two bodyguards, but both men were already dead, bleeding out on the pristine white carpet.
May you like
The lead gunman stepped over the bodies, aiming his weapon down at the former matriarch.
"Did you think they would let you talk, Winona?" Eamon whispered to himself, the cold realization washing over him. The people who supplied the forgery were tying up loose ends.
