The sound of Dominic Vale’s cane striking the Italian marble floor echoed through the great room like a gunshot.
One hard tap.
Then silence.
The six men waiting behind the heavy glass doors of the conference room turned at exactly the same moment.
For weeks, they had been waiting for this meeting.
For weeks, they had watched Dominic’s condition deteriorate.
And tonight, they had come prepared to take advantage of it.
But none of them expected what happened next.
Vincent Hale, Dominic’s head of security, reacted faster than anyone else. His body stiffened instantly, one hand moving instinctively toward his weapon as his eyes locked onto the scene unfolding in the middle of the great room.
“Hey. Don’t touch him.”
Clare Rowan spun around from her linen cart.
The color drained from her face.
“Ellie!”
Her four-year-old daughter was kneeling beside Dominic Vale’s injured left leg.
And she had one tiny hand resting directly against the lowest black strap of the orthopedic brace hidden beneath the expensive trousers of Dominic’s suit.
The little girl didn’t seem to understand why every adult in the room had suddenly stopped moving.
She simply looked curious.
Outside, November rain whispered against the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
The gray water beyond the glass was barely visible through the rain.
Clare had been working in the upstairs guest rooms, folding towels and preparing fresh linens.
Ellie was supposed to stay beside the cart with the small wooden latch toy she carried almost everywhere.
But Ellie had always been fascinated by mechanisms.
Buckles.
Buttons.
Hooks.
Locks.
Hinges.
Anything that clicked, snapped, opened, or closed could hold her attention for hours.
And Dominic Vale’s orthopedic brace had plenty of those things.
Clare rushed across the room.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vale. I’m so sorry.”
She reached for her daughter.
Dominic raised one hand.
Clare froze.
She knew that gesture.
Everyone in the Vale estate did.
Dominic didn’t need to shout.
He didn’t need to threaten.
