The last hit landed while my husband’s mistress was still holding her champagne.

The sound wasn't thunder. It was the heavy, motorized iron gates at the perimeter of the Vance estate being force-driven into their stone posts.

Arthur Vance dropped his glass of scotch onto the hearth. The crystal shattered, spilling amber liquid across the stone. "What the hell was that?"

A security guard burst through the double doors of the foyer, his uniform disheveled, his face pale as chalk. "Mr. Vance... sir..."

"What is it, you idiot?" Arthur barked.

"There are vehicles coming up the driveway," the guard stammered, pointing frantically behind him. "Heavy armor. They bypassed the main checkpoint."

Isaac laughed, though the sound was high and brittle. "So stop them! What do we pay you for?"

"We tried, sir," the guard whispered, looking terrified. "They rammed the barricade."

Outside, bright halogen headlights cut through the dark rain, illuminating the ballroom windows.

Five identical, matte-black SUVs drove up the winding stone driveway in a tight tactical V-formation. They didn't slow down for the decorative fountain in the center of the courtyard; they swerved precisely around it, bringing their engines to a stop simultaneously in front of the grand entrance.

The air in the ballroom went completely still.

My phone was still pressed against my ear. "Noah?"

"Stand near the back wall, Flora," Noah said through the speaker. "Keep your hands where we can see them."

Isaac stepped toward me, grabbing my shoulder to turn me around. "What did you do? Who did you call?"

I shoved his hand off my shoulder with every ounce of strength I had left. "Don't touch me."

The double front doors of the estate didn't just open; they were thrown back against the interior walls with a force that cracked the plaster.

Five men stepped into the foyer.

They were dressed in tailored dark suits, but there was nothing corporate about the way they moved. They stepped into the room with the synchronized, lethal grace of men who owned every room they ever walked into.

Noah led the group. At forty-two, he was broad-shouldered, with silver hair cropped short at his temples and eyes like cracked flint. Beside him was Leo, heavy-set and stone-faced; Julian, tall, lean, and holding a leather briefcase; Marcus, adjusting his gold cufflinks; and Caleb, the youngest, whose cold gaze immediately swept the room, cataloging every exit, every security guard, and every weapon.

Arthur Vance stepped forward, his mouth opening to demand an explanation.

Then his eyes met Noah’s.

The color drained from Arthur’s face so fast he looked like a corpse in an expensive suit. His hand began to tremble at his side.

"Sterling..." Arthur whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the rain outside. "The Sterling family."

Noah stopped in the center of the ballroom floor, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the oak wood. He didn't look at Isaac. He didn't look at Wendy.