The return to the Sterling Manor was not the homecoming of an heiress; it was the infiltration of a ghost. The massive gates, once guarded by men in crisp uniforms, were now wrapped in yellow "Police Line: Do Not Cross" tape. The gardens, usually manicured to perfection, had begun to succumb to the winter frost, looking like a graveyard of frozen roses.
Albert and Riana crouched in the shadows of the perimeter wall. The four thousand euros had bought them a beat-up sedan and two sets of dark utility gear.
"The sensors are dead," Albert whispered, checking a handheld scanner. "The bank cut the power to the security grid forty-eight hours ago. But be careful—there are still federal eyes on the main entrance."
"The East Wing has its own service entrance," Riana said, her voice steady despi
