Mara smiled slowly.
My father looked at his wife.
“Vivienne.”
She did not look at him. “For twenty-seven years, we tried to protect the family name. That ends today.”
He understood.
So did I.
Black Harbor’s power came from secrecy. From reputations too polished to question. From private crimes hidden behind public charity.
My mother was going to burn the room down with all of us inside.
By eleven thirty, I was dressed in black.
The drive hung from a chain beneath my blouse.
A fake drive rested in my coat pocket.
Mara gave me an earpiece smaller than a pearl.
“Say the word ‘lullaby’ if you need extraction.”
“What happens then?”
My mother answered. “We come in.”
“With guns?”
“With everything.”
My father wanted to come. I could see it tearing him apart not to. But Calloway knew his face, his walk, his fury. My mother’s plan required restraint, and restraint was the one thing my father had almost lost.
