Chapter 1 - The Headlights at the Wrought-Iron Gates
The concussive boom of the heavy wrought-iron gates slamming shut at the perimeter entrance of the Vance estate in Buckhead, Atlanta, reverberated through the three-story ballroom like an artillery shell.
CLANG-CRASH.
Inside the ballroom, the sixty guestsâjudges, real estate magnates, civic board directors, and society matrons draped in platinumâfroze in place. The crystalline chimes of the twelve-foot chandeliers trembled overhead.
Isaac Vance stood at the center of the polished marble floor, still gripping the braided-leather riding crop loosely in his right hand. His bespoke tuxedo jacket was open, his silk bow tie slightly crooked, his handsome, thirty-six-year-old face flushed with the arrogant satisfaction of a man who believed power was defined by cruelty. Beside him, Cloverâhis mistress of eight monthsâdraped in her silver designer cocktail gown stained down the front with red wine, held her crystal champagne flute halfway to her lips, her painted smile freezing in place.
Across the room, standing beside the fallen hemp ropes that had suspended my wrists from the decorative ceiling beam moments earlier, I didn't reach for an ice pack. I didn't rub my raw, bruised wrists. I pulled my wool overcoat around my shoulders to conceal the shredded silk of my birthday dress.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling arched glass windows, the darkness was obliterated by ten blinding beams of high-intensity white light.
Five matte-black, armored Cadillac Escalades rolled in synchronized tactical formation up the half-mile brick driveway, their heavy V8 engines emitting a low, predatory rumble that rattled the glass panes. They did not park neatly in the circular motor court. They fanned out across the manicured lawn, tires digging into the turf, completely blockading the portico, the perimeter exits, and the six sports cars belonging to Isaac and his inner circle.
Isaac frowned, his hand lowering the riding crop.
"What kind of joke is this?" Isaac sneered, looking toward his mother, Wendy Vance, who stood near the multi-tiered champagne fountain. "Dad, did you hire private security to clear the driveway?"
Isaacâs father, Arthur VanceâCEO of Vance Consolidated Constructionâset his tumbler onto a silver tray, his aristocratic brow furrowing with deep irritation. "I hired no one. Call the precinct captain in Zone 2. Have the city police drag those vehicles off my grass."
"Nobody is calling Zone 2, Arthur," I spoke softly.
My voice was not a shout. It was a level, surgical register that cut cleanly through the tension in the room.
Isaac turned toward me, his lips curling into that familiar, dismissive sneer he had perfected over five years of marriage. "Still barking after taking your medicine, Flora? You think calling your family is going to scare me? Your brothers are working-class thugs who move cargo on the docks. I have the mayor on speed dial."
Before the sentence cleared his mouth, the double mahogany front doors of the estate were thrown inward with concussive, hydraulic force:
BOOM!
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The heavy oak slammed back against the interior wainscoting, splintering the frame.
Stepping through the threshold, moving in clinical, overlapping formation, were five men whose very presence sucked the air straight out of the ballroom.
