Chapter 14
The thing about priceless artifacts is that they’re really just expensive paperweights until someone decides they’re worth killing for. Eden adjusted her evening gown—midnight blue, designed to hide bloodstains—and watched society’s elite mill around the museum’s new Ancient Civilizations wing. Every glittering jewel, every perfectly tailored suit represented a potential threat. Any one of these smiling patrons could be working for Romano.
“Security team three, check in.”
Hunter’s voice was low in her earpiece, his tone pure professional despite everything that had passed between them in the last four days.
“Clear on the east side,”
she murmured, pretending to examine a particularly ugly vase.
“Though I’m starting to think some of these artifacts deserve to be stolen. Who pays millions for ceramic waterfowl?”
“Focus, darlin’.”
But she heard the smile in his voice.
“Dr. Chen’s speech starts in ten minutes. Everything has to be in position before then.”
The endearment caught her off-guard, as it always did—professional in context but intimate in tone. During their preparations for tonight, they’d developed a rhythm that transcended standard operational parameters, anticipating each other’s movements and decisions with uncanny accuracy.
She found herself automatically scanning the room for him, locating Hunter by the bar where he maintained perfect sightlines to both her position and the main exits. Even across the crowded gallery, she recognized the alertness in his stance that contrasted with his relaxed expression.
Eden scanned the room while mentally reviewing what made Katherine Chen such a puzzling figure. Unlike most museum curators Eden had encountered during her career, Chen’s documentation revealed an almost forensic approach—highlighting manufacturing anomalies, documenting chain-of-custody irregularities, and establishing patterns that only someone looking for criminal connections would notice.
During their limited interactions at museum events, Eden had observed how Chen commanded rooms without appearing to do so—a rare skill typically developed in intelligence circles, not academic ones. The curator maintained peripheral awareness while appearing completely absorbed in artifacts, calculated sight lines without obvious scanning, and somehow always positioned herself to monitor key figures while appearing coincidentally placed.
Most curiously, Chen sometimes documented pieces in ways that created perfect evidence chains when compiled correctly, yet appeared inconsequential in isolation. It wasn’t just professional thoroughness—it was calculated strategy disguised as academic diligence.
Eden did another casual sweep of the room, cataloging faces. The Blind Jacks were scattered throughout the crowd, clean-shaven and uncomfortable in rented tuxedos. King held court near the bar, playing the wealthy donor with surprising skill. And somewhere in the maze of galleries, Romano’s private security teams were waiting to spring their own trap.
“Movement at the service entrance,”
one of the patches reported.
“Four men, tactical gear under suit jackets.”
“Make that eight,”
another voice cut in.
“More coming in through the loading dock. These guys aren’t museum staff.”
Eden felt the shift in the air—the subtle tension that preceded violence. Around her, the party continued. Champagne flowed, cameras flashed, and Damascus steel daggers worth millions sat in climate-controlled cases, unaware they were about to become the catalyst for war.
“Katherine’s starting her speech early.”
Hunter’s warning carried over the comm.
“Eden, you’re up.”
She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, her fingers brushing the gun strapped to her thigh. The plan was simple: get Katherine away from Romano, secure the evidence she’d gathered, and expose the entire operation before anyone realized what was happening.
Simple. Right.
“Ladies and gentlemen.”
Katherine Chen’s voice carried clearly through the gallery. She stood on a small stage, elegant in black silk that made her look more like a warrior queen than a museum curator. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sophisticated twist that emphasized her striking bone structure, while her posture—perfectly balanced and alert despite appearing relaxed—suggested years of specialized training.
When she gestured toward the artifacts, Eden noticed the controlled precision in her movements, nothing wasted or theatrical, just pure efficiency disguised as academic enthusiasm.
“Welcome to the Institute’s newest exhibition: “Lost Treasures of the Ancient World.”
Eden positioned herself near the back of the crowd, watching Romano watch his wife. He stood in the front row, radiating cultured charm, but Eden saw the predator beneath the designer suit. His lean frame was wrapped in a tuxedo that likely cost more than most people’s monthly salary, the fabric moving with him as if custom-woven for his body. The silver at his temples provided distinguished contrast to his olive complexion, while his manicured hands—hands that had ordered countless deaths without ever getting blood on them—rested casually in his pockets.
His security teams were moving into position, cutting off exits.
“Every piece in this collection tells a story,”
Katherine continued, her voice steady despite the tension Eden could see in her shoulders.
“Stories of conquest and empire, of beauty and destruction. But some stories remain hidden, waiting to be told...”
The lights went out.
Chaos erupted immediately. Security teams moved toward the stage as guests panicked in the darkness. Eden was already moving, using the confusion to close the distance to Katherine.
“Now would be good,”
she murmured into her comm.
The emergency lights kicked on, bathing everything in red. And that’s when the real show began.
The display cases throughout the gallery began opening, their supposedly unbreakable security systems deactivated by Eden’s viruses. Alarms blared as priceless artifacts became suspiciously accessible.
“Get her out of here!”
Romano’s voice carried over the chaos as his men surrounded Katherine.
“Sir!”
One of his security teams rushed forward.
“We have armed intruders in the east wing. Looks like Devil’s Mark patches.”
Eden smiled in the darkness. Right on schedule.
“Lock this place down,”
Romano ordered.
“No one leaves until—”
The explosion cut him off.
It wasn’t a big blast—just enough to breach the wall between the new wing and the museum’s secure storage area. But it was exactly what they needed.
“Hands off my wife, asshole.”
The new voice carried clearly through the smoke.
Eden felt her blood run cold. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Through the chaos, she saw him—Merrick Mitchell, very much alive and looking pissed as hell. His imposing frame dominated the space he’d claimed, his weathered face set in lines of cold fury.
The emergency lighting caught the silver in his beard and the hardness in his eyes—eyes the exact shade of green as Eden’s own, though his had never shown anything but calculation where hers occasionally revealed compassion.
Despite the blood spattered across his designer suit, he moved with the fluid confidence of someone accustomed to violence and its aftermath.
“Daddy’s home.”
Eden’s whisper carried over the comm.
“Hunter...”
“I see him.”
His voice was tight.
“Stick to the plan. Get Katherine clear.”
But the plan was already unraveling. Romano’s men were engaging the Devil’s Mark crew while actual museum security tried to protect the artifacts. Guests screamed and ran for exits that were rapidly being blocked off.
And in the middle of it all, Merrick Mitchell aimed a gun at Romano’s head.
“Did you really think I’d let you take over my operation?”
Merrick’s laugh was cold.
“That I’d just disappear and let you walk away with everything I built?”
“Merrick.”
Romano’s smile never wavered.
“I must admit, you’re harder to kill than I expected. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—your daughter got that from somewhere.”
Eden moved through the shadows, getting closer to Katherine. The curator’s eyes met hers briefly, and Eden saw the silent message there. Whatever was about to happen, it was all part of the show.
“My daughter.”
Merrick spat the words.
“The federal agent you’ve been using to clean up your mess? That was a nice touch. Having Thompson feed her information, letting her think she was building a case against me when really she was just doing your dirty work.”
The words hit Eden like physical blows. She saw Hunter go still across the room, saw King’s hand tighten on his concealed weapon.
“Eden was always so eager to believe the worst of you,”
Romano agreed.
“It made her the perfect tool. Everything she did—investigating your operation, documenting your crimes, even killing Thompson—it all served to legitimize my takeover. And now?”
His smile turned cruel.
“Now she’ll take the fall for everything. The grieving daughter gone rogue, desperate for revenge. It’s practically Shakespearean.”
“You son of a bitch.”
The words left Eden’s lips before she could stop them.
Every gun in the room swung toward her. She straightened slowly, letting them see her evening gown, her carefully styled hair, the weapon she now held openly.
“Eden.”
Her father’s voice carried a warning.
“Put the gun down.”
“Or what?”
She kept her aim steady on Romano.
“You’ll kill me like you killed Mom? Finally finish what you started fifteen years ago?”
“Your mother died because she was weak.”
Merrick’s eyes were cold.
“Just like you’re weak. All that training, all that potential, and you still can’t see when you’re being played.”
“Oh, I can see just fine.”
Eden’s smile was sharp as broken glass.
“I see a lot of things. Like how you and Romano staged that little showdown at the clubhouse. How convenient that you managed to disappear with all the account records right before the Blind Jacks showed up.”
She saw the flicker of surprise in both men’s eyes and pressed her advantage.
“What I can’t figure out is why Katherine played along.”
Eden kept her gun trained on Romano but her eyes locked on the curator.
“Why help me gather evidence against your husband if you were working with him the whole time?”
Katherine’s laugh was pure ice.
“Who says I was working with either of them?”
Everything happened at once.
Katherine pulled a weapon from beneath her podium as more armed figures emerged from the crowd—not Romano’s men or Devil’s Mark patches, but something else entirely. Eden caught glimpses of familiar faces: federal agents she’d worked with, operators she’d trained with, people who should have been trustworthy.
“Did you really think you were the only one building a case?”
Katherine’s smile was triumphant.
“While you were all playing your little games of betrayal, I was documenting everything. The artifact smuggling, the private military corporation, the political bribes—all of it. And now?”
She gestured to her hidden backup.
“Now I have enough witnesses to bring down everyone in this room.”
“Brava.”
Romano’s voice held genuine admiration.
“I always knew you were ambitious, my dear. But this?”
He shook his head.
“This is truly impressive.”
“I learned from the best.”
Katherine’s aim didn’t waver.
“Fifteen years of watching you destroy lives, manipulate people, build your empire on blood money and broken trust. Did you really think I wouldn’t learn how to play the game?”
Eden’s mind raced. Nothing was what it seemed. Every player in this twisted drama had their own agenda, their own betrayals in motion. And somewhere in the chaos, she’d lost sight of Hunter.
A movement caught her eye—one of Katherine’s hidden agents shifting position. Something about his stance was familiar.
“Hunter.”
His name left her lips just as all hell broke loose.
Multiple shots rang out. Eden dove for cover as bullets tore through priceless artifacts. Through the chaos, she caught glimpses of the truth.
Hunter, moving with deadly precision as he engaged Katherine’s men.
Her father, laughing as he put bullets into Romano’s security team.
Romano himself, calm as ever while he accessed something on his phone.
And Katherine, her triumphant smile never wavering as she pressed a button on her podium.
The floor beneath them shuddered.
“Insurance policy,”
Katherine called over the gunfire.
“This wing sits on top of old maintenance tunnels. Tunnels that are now rigged to collapse in exactly sixty seconds.”
Eden met Hunter’s eyes across the room. In that moment, every lie, every betrayal, every complicated emotion between them condensed into a single truth: they were out of time.
What surprised her was the trust she saw in his expression—not questioning her loyalty despite the chaos unfolding around them, not demanding explanations as bullets flew. Instead, his eyes held steady confidence in her judgment, even knowing the impossible choice before her.
“Eden!”
His voice carried over the chaos. “Choose!”
The word wasn’t a demand but an acknowledgment, recognition that whatever decision she made would be strategically sound, even if it appeared incomprehensible to everyone else.
She had seconds to decide. Her father was closest, already moving toward an exit. Romano was somehow still alive, Katherine’s men keeping him contained but not killing him. And Hunter.
Hunter was fighting his way toward her, trust and desperation warring in his eyes.
The floor shuddered again. Pieces of ceiling began to fall.
Eden made her choice.
She fired three shots in rapid succession, each one changing the game completely. Then she ran, leaving chaos and betrayal in her wake.
Behind her, the floor finally gave way, swallowing millions in artifacts and years of carefully laid plans. Ahead lay uncertainty and the growing knowledge that nothing would ever be simple again.
And somewhere in between, Hunter’s voice followed her into the darkness.
“That’s my girl.”
The words carried no possession, only recognition. Acknowledgment of her strategy when everyone else would see only betrayal. In the weeks they’d worked together, he’d become the first person since her mother who could anticipate her thinking, who understood the necessary sacrifices behind her decisions.
She smiled as she ran, tasting blood and victory and the bitter sweetness of necessary betrayal. The knowledge that someone understood her choices without explanation was as dangerous as it was exhilarating—a complication she hadn’t planned for but couldn’t bring herself to regret.
The war wasn’t over. It was just beginning.
And this time, everyone would burn.