The Inheritance Heist

Lyra Vale had never worn heels this expensive - or stolen an identity so bold.

She stood just beyond the wrought-iron gates of the Arceo estate, dressed in mourning black, her forged invitation tucked neatly inside a borrowed clutch. The manor loomed in the distance like a silent threat, every inch of it built on decades of blood, secrets, and buried names. Tonight, it opened its doors to mourn a king. And she was here to pretend she was born of his crown.

"Gate opens in three minutes," said Isla through the comm in Lyra's ear. "You sure you want to do this?"

Lyra adjusted the neckline of her dress, expression unreadable in the reflection of the car window. "You say that like there's still time to back out."

"There is. There's always time before the lie starts. After that..." Isla let the sentence hang.

After that, there was only survival.

Lyra's fingers brushed the locket beneath her dress a cheap trinket with a photo she'd never shown anyone. Her mother had kept it hidden until the day she died. The man in the photo? Benito Arceo. Mafia royalty. Empire-builder. And maybe her father.

She took a breath. "This isn't a lie. Not entirely."

"Right. Just enough of one to get you killed."

A black car pulled up behind her. Men in tailored suits stepped out, their eyes scanning the line of guests forming before the gate. No one paid attention to the woman standing still with fire behind her eyes.

That was Lyra's gift being underestimated.

The guards at the gate were meticulous.

She approached with her chin high, posture perfect. A forged ID and an invitation marked with a minor noble family's crest purchased from an old contact who owed her more than a few favors. Not enough to be recognized by the inner circle, but just enough to make her presence believable.

"Name?" the guard asked.

"Leona Velasquez," she replied without a hitch, slipping the card into his gloved hand.

He scanned it. Checked the list. Paused.

Lyra held her breath not visibly, just enough to tighten her ribs.

Then, a nod.

"This way, Miss Velasquez."

She stepped through the gates like she belonged. And for the first time in her life, she wasn't walking into a con.

But war.

Inside the estate, everything reeked of power and polished cruelty.

Oil paintings of dead men stared from gilded frames. Waiters moved like ghosts, silent and sharp. Everyone was dressed in black, but no one was truly grieving. They were watching, calculating who the new king would be.

It wasn't hard to guess who.

Damian Arceo hadn't shown up yet, but his name rolled in hushed tones from every corner. The adopted son. The heir no one dared to challenge. Cold as winter and twice as sharp.

Lyra needed to see him. She needed to read him before he saw through her.

But tonight wasn't about that. Tonight was reconnaissance.

She was here to confirm the rumors: that Benito Arceo had left behind a daughter no one knew. That the old man, even on his deathbed, couldn't fully sever his secrets. Lyra didn't know if the whispers were real. She only had a photo, a date, and a grave promise to herself:

Find the truth. Take the files. Take the throne.

Disguise was her armor. Silence, her blade.

Marco, posing as a bartender, caught her eye from across the room. One nod. No trouble. yet.

Then Isla's voice crackled softly in her earpiece. "You're in. The guest list worked. But get this there's an encrypted ledger in the basement. It might have details on heirs. Schedules say the basement clears out in twenty minutes."

Lyra's eyes flicked toward the grand staircase leading down.

Its time. She thought.