The heavy iron service gate slammed shut behind Leo, locking with a definitive, metallic click that cut off the pandemonium of the garden patio. The two security guards twisted his arms back until his shoulder joints screamed in protest, shoving him hard against the cold, damp stone wall of the staff corridor. The sweet scent of crushed summer blossoms was instantly replaced by the choking stench of bleach and old grease.

«What did you put in that drink, you little rat?» the taller guard snarled, pressing a heavy forearm against Leo’s windpipe, cutting off his ragged breath.

Leo struggled for air, his vision swimming as his feet barely brushed the concrete floor. Through the narrow, wire-reinforced glass panel of the service door, the garden had erupted into absolute chaos. Guests were trampling over one another, scattering across the lawn in a desperate wave of panic. He could see Richard St. Clair kneeling over Victoria’s motionless form, but the agonizing realization struck Leo like a physical blow: Richard wasn’t performing CPR. He was pressing two fingers firmly against Victoria’s pulse point, his body language entirely devoid of grief—he was calculating the exact moment of her expiration.

Before the guard could tighten his grip further, a sharp, metallic ring echoed down the corridor.

Both guards froze. The taller man instantly released Leo, dropping him onto the stone floor in a breathless heap. The guard reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a sleek, encrypted burner phone. He pressed it to his ear, listened for barely three seconds, and went completely pale.

«Clear the sector,» the guard whispered into the receiver, his voice trembling. «He’s coming down.»

Leo scrambled backward on his hands and knees, pressing his spine against the wall as the heavy steel doors at the opposite end of the hallway groaned open.

A lone figure stepped out of the shadows, flanked by two men in identical black tactical suits. It wasn’t Richard. It was a man with stark white hair, wearing an immaculate charcoal suit that looked entirely out of place in the grimy basement corridor. In his hand, he held a familiar, heavy object—a solid gold envelope, identical to the one that had arrived at Leo’s apartment three hours ago.

«Well, well,» the white-haired man murmured, his voice smooth and unnervingly calm as his polished leather shoes clicked against the concrete. He crouched down until his eyes were level with Leo’s. «You made quite a mess upstairs, boy. But you missed the most important part.»

Leo wiped a streak of blood from his lip, glaring up through wild, terrified eyes. «Where is my sister?»

The man smiled, though his eyes remained as cold as winter ice. He tapped the corner of the gold envelope against Leo’s cheek, sending a shiver straight down the boy’s spine.

«Your sister never worked for the catering company, Leo,» the man whispered softly. «She walked out of this estate an hour before you arrived. And she left you right in the middle of a war zone.»

He straightened up, snapping his fingers at the guards. «Take him to the vault. If Richard wants his wife’s killer silenced, let’s give him a front-row seat to what’s really buried beneath this house.»