Snow drifted across the Monaco skyline, a pale curtain that did nothing to soften the city’s jagged edges. Alina Vale knelt behind a granite statue in the palace gardens, breath visible in the night air, muscles coiled like a panther ready to strike. Nicholas Thorne stood beside her, pistol drawn, coat open against the cold. Their son, Eli, lay hidden in a service tunnel below them, safe for now—but seconds counted.
“Camille says Lucien’s safehouse is half a mile northwest,” Nicholas murmured, voice low. “We split; you circle from the east, I’ll come from the west. We flush him out together.”
Alina nodded, heart hammering. “Be careful. He’s dangerous.”
“He killed Sasha,” Nicholas reminded her. “And twisted our past into a weapon. I won’t let him take anything else.”
A siren wailed dist
