Chapter 3 - The Crimson Dot
Christian reacted on pure instinct. He hurled his broad frame forward, tackling Elena and Leo into the shelter of a heavy oak buffet table just as a suppressed gunshot whispered through the cavernous room.
Pfft!
The heavy crystal punch bowl above them shattered, raining shards of glass and dark red liquid across the linen tablecloth.
"Sniper on the catwalk!" Christian roared into his lapel comms, pinning Elena and his son underneath him. "Lock down the perimeter! Nobody leaves this building!"
Panic erupted among the remaining security personnel. Sirens began to wail in the distance, echoing off the high stone walls of the Sterling estate. Footsteps pounded overhead as guards scrambled toward the service stairs leading to the balcony.
Beneath the oak table, Leo was screaming, his small hands clutching Elena’s torn collar. Elena’s voice was a steady, rhythmic murmur in the dark, soothing the boy despite the blood running down her own forearms from the shattered glass.
"Shh, Leo, look at Mommy. Eyes on Mommy, baby. You're safe. We’re safe."
Christian looked down at her in the dim space, his breathing ragged. Seeing her alive, shielding their son with the same fierce maternal instinct she had always possessed, shattered the three years of numb, alcohol-soaked grief he had lived through.
"Elena," he choked out, his hand cupping the side of her face, his thumb wiping away a smudge of soot and tears. "Who did this? Who took you?"
"Who do you think, Christian?" Elena whispered bitterly, her eyes darting toward the edge of the table.
Through the draped tablecloth, Victoria was standing near the grand doors, her phone pressed tight against her ear, completely ignoring the gunfire. She wasn't ducking. She wasn't screaming. She was glaring at the buffet table with a look of cold, calculating hatred.
"You missed," Victoria hissed into her phone, her voice barely above a whisper, unaware that Christian’s head of security, Marcus, was quietly circling behind her with a tactical sidearm drawn. "Clean it up before the city police breach the gate, or you won't get the second half of the transfer."
Marcus grabbed Victoria's wrist with brutal precision, twisting the phone out of her grip.
"Miss Sterling," Marcus said flatly, his weapon aimed at her chest. "You're going to hand over the phone, and you're going to sit on the floor."
"How dare you touch me, you overpaid watchdog!" Victoria snarled, attempting to pull away. "I am Christian's fiancée! I run this household!"
"You run nothing," Christian's voice boomed.
He stepped out from under the table, holding Leo against his chest with one arm, while his other hand remained firmly locked around Elena’s wrist, pulling her up beside him. His suit was ruined, splattered with punch and engine oil from Elena's uniform, but his posture was deadlier than it had ever been in a corporate boardroom.
"Christian, thank God!" Victoria gasped, flipping her expression instantly to one of tearful relief. "Someone tried to shoot us! We need to get into the panic room right now!"
"Marcus," Christian said, ignoring her completely. "Did you trace the call?"
Marcus held up Victoria's phone. The screen was still illuminated. The caller ID showed an unlisted overseas satellite number, and the active bank app displayed a pending transfer of two million dollars to a private Swiss mercenary account.
"Payment went to the same account that funded the Geneva transport three years ago, sir," Marcus stated coldly.
Victoria’s jaw dropped. The mask of innocence slipped away entirely, leaving behind the sneer of a cornered predator. "You think you can prove anything with a bank transfer? I have fifty lawyers on retainer, Christian. You don't know half of what happened that night in Switzerland."
"Then you’re going to tell me," Christian said, his voice ice. "In the basement. Right now."
"No," Elena said suddenly, stepping forward. Leo buried his face into Christian’s shoulder, terrified of Victoria's harsh glare. "She won't talk to you, Christian. Because you still don't know who she works for."
Elena reached into the pocket of her stained apron and pulled out a small, encrypted flash drive, tossing it at Marcus.
May you like
"What is that?" Christian asked, his brow furrowing.
"That," Elena said, her voice trembling with five years of buried trauma, "is the recording of your father’s last words before Victoria poisoned his IV drip."
