Chapter 3

Alondra walked toward the idling Range Rover.

As she got closer, her highly trained olfactory senses picked up a distinct scent cutting through the exhaust fumes. It was the faint, unmistakable smell of bitter almonds mixed with fresh blood.

The rear window was rolled halfway down.

A man in a bespoke suit was slumped against the leather seat. His large hands were clawing desperately at his own chest.

His jawline was sharp and rigid, a pulse beating wildly against the skin.

Thick drops of cold sweat soaked the collar of his expensive shirt. He was suffocating.

In the driver's seat, a bodyguard was frantically yelling into a Bluetooth earpiece.

He was demanding an emergency medical helicopter and didn't even notice Alondra standing on the curb.

Alondra's eyes scanned the man in the back seat.

She didn't see a billionaire; she saw a patient. She noted the slight blue tint to his lips and the terrifying, dark red ring around the outer edge of his irises.

She reached out and pulled the heavy car door open.

Cold air rushed into the heated cabin.

The bodyguard in the front seat spun around.

He drew a black Glock pistol from his shoulder holster in a fraction of a second. The dark muzzle aimed directly at the center of Alondra's forehead.

Alondra gave a slow, deliberate blink.

Her heart rate didn't elevate. She looked down the barrel of the gun and spoke in a voice made of ice. "Put the gun down, or your boss will be dead in less than three minutes."

The bodyguard's finger froze on the trigger.

The sheer, oppressive authority radiating from this young woman paralyzed his training. He didn't shoot.

Grayson Carlson forced his heavy eyelids open.

Through the haze of excruciating pain, his vision focused on the girl standing in the doorway. She was wearing a cheap dress and holding a worn canvas bag, but her eyes were older than time.

Alondra leaned into the car.

She ignored the gun still pointed at her head. She pressed two cool fingers directly against the pulsing carotid artery on Grayson's neck.

The moment her skin touched his, Grayson felt a violent jolt.

Her fingers were freezing, but the precise pressure she applied to the artery instantly eased the crushing weight on his lungs.

Alondra pulled her hand back after exactly three seconds.

"Aconite root, synthesized belladonna, and a rare derivative of the oleander plant," Alondra recited flatly.

Grayson's chest heaved. His deep eyes widened in absolute shock.

A team of Nobel-winning toxicologists had spent three months testing his blood, and they had only identified half of what she just named in three seconds.

Alondra saw his shock.

The corner of her mouth twitched into a cold smirk. "Whoever is feeding this to you eats breakfast at the same table you do. It's an inside job."

She reached into her canvas bag.

Her fingers found a simple, dull silver hairpin. Without warning, she drove the sharp tip of the pin directly into a specific nerve cluster on Grayson's chest.

The bodyguard shouted and lunged across the console.

Grayson raised a trembling hand.

His jaw locked, but he made a sharp, authoritative gesture that stopped the bodyguard instantly.

Alondra pulled the pin out.

A single drop of thick, black-purple blood welled up from the puncture wound. Grayson took a massive, shuddering breath. The agonizing pain in his heart vanished, replaced by a dull, manageable ache.

He stared at the girl, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Who are you?" Grayson asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

Alondra didn't answer.

She wiped the blood off the pin with a tissue, tossed the tissue into the car's cupholder, and turned to walk away.

Before she could take two steps, blinding high beams cut through the darkness.

A convoy of four massive, black Cadillac Escalades roared down the street.

The SUVs moved with aggressive military precision, entirely blocking the intersection and trapping the Range Rover. In the center of the convoy was a custom, bulletproof Mercedes-Maybach S-Class.

The rear door of the Maybach opened.

An elderly British butler, dressed in a flawless tuxedo, stepped out onto the asphalt. Ivor Maynard walked with purpose.

Ivor walked straight past the armed bodyguard and the Range Rover.

He stopped in front of Alondra and bowed deeply, bending at a perfect ninety-degree angle.

"Miss Alondra," Ivor's voice trembled with genuine emotion. "I am the head butler of the Kerr family. We have finally found you. It is time to come home."

Inside the Range Rover, Grayson's muscles tightened.

He heard the name 'Kerr'. The Kerr family practically owned Wall Street. He watched the girl closely, his mind racing.

Alondra's expression didn't change.

She accepted the butler's bow as if stepping into a multi-million-dollar armored vehicle was an everyday occurrence.

She slid into the back seat of the Maybach.

The heavy, bulletproof door slammed shut, completely cutting off Grayson's view.

The convoy accelerated smoothly, disappearing into the night like a pack of ghosts, leaving the bodyguard standing on the street with his gun lowered.

Grayson leaned his head back against the leather seat.

He took a deep, painless breath. A rigid pulse beat in his jaw. "Run a full background check on her. Now."