The Arrogant Crime Boss Thought the Quiet Cellist Was Easy Prey

Midnight in Forest Hill was wrapped in a thick, choking fog that rolled in off Lake Ontario, swallowing the sprawling heritage mansions behind wrought-iron gates and manicured hedges.

At the front entrance of Marcus Vance’s estate, two Blackwood SUVs pulled up with their high beams blindingly bright, disgorging Pavl and four heavy-set enforcers who began loudly banging on the front gates, shouting demands for an immediate accounting meeting. It was theatrical, loud, and entirely designed to draw every single security guard toward the front perimeter.

While the guards rushed to the front doors to confront Pavl and his men, Nessa Caldwell slipped silently through the darkness behind the property. Dressed in matte black tactical gear, she moved like a ghost through the ravine, slipping past the drainage pipe exactly where the blueprints indicated the infrared grid had a dead zone.

She scaled the moss-slick northern retaining wall with effortless, fluid strength, her fingers finding purchase in the stone mortar. Within seconds, she hooked her leg over the parapet and dropped silently onto the rear balcony of Vance’s second-floor study.

The glass door was unlocked—Vance was arrogant enough to believe his front-line mercenaries made basic security obsolete. Nessa slid inside, the plush oriental rug muffling her footsteps.

The study was dark, illuminated only by the pale blue glow of a multi-monitor workstation. Marcus Vance himself sat at the mahogany desk, hurriedly stuffing encrypted flash drives into a leather attaché case, muttering curses under his breath about flight schedules to Zurich.

Nessa stepped out from the shadow of the velvet drapes.

“Looking for your offshore files, Marcus?” she asked softly.

Vance whipped around in his executive leather chair, his face twisting in sudden, primal terror as he reached for a small chrome revolver resting beside his keyboard.

He never touched the gun.

Nessa closed the distance in a fraction of a second. As Vance’s hand hovered over the weapon, Nessa struck with lightning precision—a lightning-fast palm heel strike to his wrist that sent the revolver skittering across the hardwood floor, followed immediately by a sweeping leg trip that dumped Vance backward out of his chair.

Before he could scream, Nessa pinned him to the floor with her knee planted firmly against his chest, her forearm pressing gently but firmly against his throat.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a chilling, metallic register. “The hard drives. Now.”

Vance choked out a breathless wheeze, his eyes bulging as he pointed a trembling finger toward the open laptop on the desk. “The master backup is... it’s downloading right now onto the encrypted drive in the tray... take it... just don't hurt me...”

Nessa reached out with her free hand, popped the flash drive out of the USB port, and pocketed it. At that exact moment, the heavy oak study door burst open, and one of Vance’s private security guards rushed in with a tactical shotgun raised.

“Drop the—*oof!*”

Nessa didn't wait for him to finish the command. She grabbed a heavy brass paperweight from Vance’s desk and hurled it with pinpoint accuracy, catching the guard square in the chest, followed by a ferocious spinning side-kick that caught the man under the chin and sent him crashing backward into the hallway wall, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Silence returned to the study.

Nessa looked down at Marcus Vance, who was shaking uncontrollably beneath her knee. She leaned down close to his ear. “That’s for my grandfather’s hospital bills. And the rest is for everyone else you tried to destroy.”