Fleur stood frozen as her aunt Ottilia stripped away her paper crown, draped a lace mourning veil over her face, and cruelly sneered that she should practice crying because her daddy’s funeral was next.

"Lucian," Sterling croaked into the microphone, his voice cracking on the syllables. "It’s done. The car went off at the front gates. Smoke is everywhere."

A low, aristocratic chuckle vibrated through the small speaker. "Splendid. Did the girl stay inside the vehicle?"

"Yes," Sterling lied, his eyes darting frantically to Edric’s unmoving face. "She was in the back seat with him. Both of them are gone."

"Tragic," Lucian replied, entirely devoid of remorse. "A terrible tragedy for the Whitburn dynasty. But collateral damage is inevitable when reorganizing a maritime monopoly. Have Ottilia meet me at the Teterboro hangar in forty minutes. We need her signature on the probate petition before the morning courts open."

"And the wire, Lucian?" Sterling asked, reading the silent command in Edric’s narrowing eyes. "The three million for my office?"

"Already routed through the Grand Cayman clearinghouse, Arthur," Lucian said. "You'll have your confirmation number by midnight. Now get off the property before the state police arrive. We don't need city officials standing in the blast radius."

"One question, Uncle Lucian," Edric said, leaning down until his lips were three inches from the phone in Sterling’s palm.

The line went completely dead on the other end. The background noise—the faint whine of a jet turbine idling on a tarmac—suddenly ceased.

"Edric?" Lucian’s voice dropped into a razor-sharp whisper.

"You always were too cheap to pay for real military ordnance, Lucian," Edric said into the phone. "C-4 has a distinct chemical signature. Did you really think my harbor sniffers wouldn't catch forty pounds of plastic explosive moving through Terminal Three on Wednesday morning?"

A long, suffocating pause stretched across the speaker.

"You let the car sit there," Lucian finally said, his cultured facade freezing into pure ice. "You let the bomb sit outside the doors with eighty people inside."

"The detonator was swapped thirty minutes ago, Uncle," Edric murmured. "The block under my floorboards is dry clay. The real charge is currently sitting in the luggage compartment of your Gulfstream at Teterboro."

A frantic shout tore through the phone line, followed by the clatter of a dropped headset and the roar of a jet engine surging.

"Edric! You wouldn't—"

"Goodbye, Lucian," Edric said.

He reached out, tapped the red disconnect icon on Sterling’s screen, and crushed the phone under the heel of his leather shoe with a single, brutal snap.

Sterling stumbled backward, his knees giving out as he slid down the service door onto the floorboards, hyperventilating. "You... you blew up his plane?"

"Not yet," Edric said. He looked at Agent Cole. "Marcus. Call your field team at Teterboro. Have them board the Gulfstream, secure the crate in the baggage hold, and arrest my uncle for interstate weapons trafficking."

Cole nodded once, pulled his federal credentials from his jacket, and held them up to the room. "Nobody moves. This ballroom is an active federal crime scene. Silas, let the local troopers in through the service gate."

"No!" Ottilia shrieked from the armchair, struggling to stand. "This is our family! You brought federal agents into our house, Edric! You’re a traitor to your own father’s name!"