Chapter 3 - The Broken Engagement
Camille did not flinch as the mob boss stepped into her personal space. She kept her grip firm on the parchment.
"It wasn't stolen, Mr. Vance," Camille replied calmly. "Your grandfather left it in trust with my father twenty years ago to keep it out of the hands of the federal authorities."
Lorenzo stared at her for three seconds, a flicker of genuine respect passing through his dark eyes. "And yet, here it sits on an auction table, listed under the estate of Preston Whitfield II."
Preston's face turned completely white. "Now wait a minute! That manuscript was brought to our appraisal house legally! My father acquired it from a storage liquidation—"
Lorenzo turned his head slowly, looking at Preston as if noticing a bug on his collar. "Your father stole it from Arthur Thibodeaux's legal study three days after Arthur died in an unsolved hit-and-run accident."
A murmur of shock ran through the crowd.
Camille felt a cold knot tighten in her chest at the mention of her father's name. She looked at Preston, whose eyes were darting frantically around the room, searching for an exit.
"Is that true, Preston?" Camille asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "Is that why you brought me here? Why you proposed to me last year?"
Preston swallowed hard, his sweat glistening under the chandelier lights. "Camille, don't listen to him! He's a criminal! I loved you! I wanted to help you after your father died!"
"You wanted my father's archive key," Camille said softly, the realization falling into place with terrifying clarity. "You knew he had cataloged the Vance family deeds. You needed someone who could locate the physical documents inside the Ashmore vaults, so you hired me as a cleaner and pretended to care about me."
Preston took a fast step toward her, reaching out to grab her shoulder. "Camille, be reasonable—!"
Before Preston's hand could touch her, Lorenzo Vance's gold-topped cane came down hard against Preston's wrist with a sickening CRACK.
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Preston let out a high-pitched yell of pain, dropping to his knees on the marble floor, clutching his broken wrist to his chest.
"You were told to kneel if she could translate a word," Lorenzo said coldly, standing over the groveling man. "It seems you owe the lady a knee."
