The Untouchable Widow's Ruthless Vengeance

The black SUV slammed to a halt right at the front entrance of the Manhattan club, tires slicing through the puddles and sending a spray of dirty rainwater across the sidewalk.

Gage was out of the passenger seat in a second. He popped open a massive black umbrella and positioned it perfectly by the rear door.

Ember stepped out. Her red-soled heels sank directly into the deep puddle, the cold water soaking through the leather instantly. She didn't flinch. She registered the ruin of a thousand-dollar shoe with the same cold detachment she registered the bouncer's aggression. Both were obstacles to be ignored.

A heavy-set bouncer in a cheap suit lunged forward, his hand raised to block her path. "Private event, lady. No invite, no entry."

Gage's hand shot out. He grabbed the bouncer's wrist and twisted it violently until the man's arm was pinned behind his back, his face smashed against the brick wall. The bouncer let out a muffled groan of pain.

Ember didn't even look at them. She reached out and pushed open the heavy, soundproof doors of the club.

A wall of sound hit her. Deafening bass vibrated through her ribs, mixed with the high-pitched shrieks of drunk socialites. The sudden rush of cold night air from the open door swept through the room.

People on the dance floor turned, shivering from the draft. The music thumped on.

Ember walked straight through the crowd. She didn't dodge the dancers; they parted for her, sensing the cold fury radiating off her. She headed directly for the VIP section.

Her eyes adjusted to the flashing neon lights. She locked onto the target.

In the corner booth, Kian Vance had a young girl pinned against the velvet cushions. Her shirt was torn at the collar, her mascara running down her cheeks as she struggled against his grip.

Haden Baldwin sat in the shadows across from them. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the scene with cold, detached amusement.

Ember reached out and snatched an empty whiskey bottle from a passing waiter's tray. She didn't break her stride.

She brought the heavy glass bottle down against the wall right next to Kian's head. The explosion of shattering glass was so violent it made the DJ jump, his hand reflexively slamming the crossfader to zero. The heavy bass cut out, plunging the club into a ringing silence broken only by the crunch of glass under her heel.

Kian flinched, his hand flying to the side of his face. A shard of glass had sliced his cheek. A thin line of blood appeared. He whipped his head around, his eyes wide with rage.

Then he recognized her. The rage twisted into a sneer. "Well, well. If it isn't the Baldwin widow." He spat the words, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Still spreading your legs for the family fortune?"

Ember let out a short, cold laugh. She stepped forward, her heels crushing the broken glass. The crunching sound was the only noise in the club.

She raised her hand and slapped Kian across the face. The crack of her palm against his skin was sharp and final.

Kian's head snapped to the side. He roared, pulling his arm back to throw a punch.

Gage appeared from behind. His foot connected with the back of Kian's knee. A sickening crack echoed through the room.

Kian collapsed onto the glass-strewn floor, crying out as the shards dug into his knees.

Ember crouched down. She picked up the largest piece of broken glass from the floor. She pressed the jagged edge against Kian's neck, right over his carotid artery.

The sharp glass bit into his skin. A thin line of dark red blood welled up and trickled down his neck.

Kian froze. He looked into her eyes and saw nothing but absolute, terrifying emptiness. His body began to shake. "P-please," he stammered.

"Apologize to her," Ember said, her voice low and steady. "Then get out of New York. If I see your face again, I'll carve it off."

"I'm sorry!" Kian sobbed, looking at the terrified girl on the couch. "I'm sorry! I'll go! I'm leaving!" He scrambled to his feet the moment Ember pulled the glass away, stumbling over himself as he ran for the exit.

Ember stood up. She tossed the bloody piece of glass onto the table. She pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from her clutch and slowly wiped the blood off her fingers.

She turned her head. Her eyes locked onto Haden, who hadn't moved from his spot in the shadows.

"Nephew," she said clearly, the word cutting through the silent room.

Haden's hand tightened around his whiskey glass. A hairline crack appeared in the crystal. He squeezed harder until the glass shattered in his grip, whiskey and blood mixing on the table.

Gage moved with silent efficiency. He shoved the remaining gawkers out of the VIP room, ignoring their protests. He stepped into the hallway and pulled the heavy double doors shut. The sound of the electronic lock engaging echoed in the sudden quiet.

The room was dead silent. The only sounds were the low hum of the ventilation system and the harsh, uneven breathing of the two people left inside.

Ember reached up and unbuttoned her leather gloves. She pulled them off finger by finger, the leather peeling away from her skin. She tossed them onto the glass-covered table.

"Go back to the penthouse," she said, her voice flat and businesslike. "You're grounded."

Haden stood up from the couch. Blood still dripped from his right hand-the one that had crushed the whiskey glass. He didn't wipe it. He didn't even look at it. The crimson drops splattered onto the broken glass as he took a step forward, the wetness making his grip slick but no less dangerous.

He kicked the solid mahogany coffee table. It overturned with a crash, skidding across the floor and slamming into the wall to block the only exit.

Haden moved toward her. The smell of cheap perfume and expensive bourbon rolled off him in waves. His bleeding hand left faint red smears on the velvet wallpaper as he passed. He looked like a predator closing in on its prey, wounded but all the more lethal for it.

Ember stood her ground. Her spine was ramrod straight. She didn't step back.

He shoved her backward, slamming her against the wall. Her head hit the velvet wallpaper with a dull thud, the impact knocking the air from her lungs as he caged her in. His bleeding hand hit the wall on either side of her head, leaving two crimson prints beside her ears.

He leaned down, his face buried in the curve of her neck. He inhaled deeply, his nose dragging along her skin, breathing in her scent.

"You smell like him," he growled against her skin, his voice rough and drunk. "You smell like that old man's money."

Ember stared at the wall over his shoulder. Her eyes were like ice. "Watch your mouth," she said coldly. "Remember your place. You're my nephew."

The word hit Haden like a physical blow. Three years of suppressed jealousy and rage exploded inside him.

He grabbed her chin with his uninjured hand, his fingers digging into her jaw. The metallic scent of his own blood mixed with her perfume as he forced her head up, making her look at him.

He crashed his lips down onto hers. It wasn't a kiss. It was an attack. It was brutal, punishing, and tasted like stale whiskey and blood-his blood, from the cuts on his hand that had transferred to her skin.

A sharp pain stabbed through Ember's chest. She immediately shoved the emotion down, locking it away.

She pressed her hands against his chest, pushing hard. His body was like a brick wall. Her resistance meant nothing.

She opened her mouth and bit down on his bottom lip. Hard.

The metallic taste of blood flooded both their mouths-fresh and warm, mixing with what was already there.

Haden flinched, but he didn't pull away. He pushed harder, deepening the kiss, mixing their blood and breath until Ember felt like she was drowning.

He finally pulled back when she started to choke. He stepped back an inch, his chest heaving. His bleeding hand left a dark smear on her shoulder where he'd gripped her.

He brought a thumb up to his lip, wiping away the smear of blood-hers or his, he couldn't tell. His eyes were wild, like a starving wolf. The cuts on his right hand had reopened, fresh blood weeping down his fingers.

"I'll make your life a living hell in this city," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "I swear to God."

Ember raised her hand. She slapped him across the face. The sound cracked through the room like a whip. Her palm came away wet with his blood.

Haden's head turned slightly. He slowly looked back at her. He grabbed her wrist with his bloody hand before she could pull it back. He squeezed, his grip crushing the delicate bones together, blood smearing her skin.

Ember winced, her brow furrowing in pain.

Haden let go of her hand like it was burning him. He turned around, his shoulder slamming into the door frame as he walked out. He kicked the ruined coffee table out of the way and stormed into the hallway, leaving a trail of bloody footprints on the marble floor.

Haden stormed out of the club, ignoring the shocked stares of the patrons. He ripped open the back door of the black Maybach waiting at the curb and threw himself into the leather seat. He slammed the door shut, sealing out the sound of the rain and the distant wail of police sirens.

Mitch Kowalski, his driver, adjusted the rearview mirror. His eyes flicked to the blood smeared on his boss's lip and the red handprint on his cheek.

Mitch reached over to the console and pulled out a heated towel. "Do you need a hospital, sir?" he asked quietly, holding it out.

Haden knocked the towel out of his hand. It fell to the floorboard, steaming. He didn't wipe the blood. He let it dry on his skin.

He yanked at his silk tie, loosening the knot until he could breathe. He turned his head and stared out the window at the club's flashing neon sign.

The image of Ember's face flashed in his mind. Her cold, dead eyes. Her absolute, suffocating control.

The feeling of powerlessness made him sick. He pulled his arm back and drove his fist into the leather armrest. The impact hurt his knuckles, but the pain barely registered.

Mitch didn't say a word. He hit the button to raise the privacy partition. The glass slid up smoothly, cutting off the front seat. He put the car in drive and merged into the rainy Manhattan traffic.

The cabin was quiet. The only sound was the rhythmic thumping of the windshield wipers and Haden's harsh breathing.

Suddenly, Haden laughed. It was a low, hollow sound, completely devoid of humor. It was the laugh of a man who had lost his mind.

"Three years, Mitch," Haden said, his voice raw. "Three years I've pictured destroying her. Every single day."

Mitch's voice came through the intercom, cautious. "Sir, personal vendettas aren't good for the stock price. The board is already nervous."

"I don't give a damn about the stock price," Haden snarled. "I want to burn it all down. I want to destroy everything Efford left her. I want to see her crawl in the dirt."

He leaned his head back against the seat. The memory of the night she left hit him like a freight train. The empty apartment. The note that smelled like her perfume. The absolute despair.

His hand moved on its own. His thumb rubbed against the cuff of his sleeve. The cold metal of the old silver cuff link grounded him.

It was cheap. Tarnished. The only gift she had ever given him. He hadn't taken it off in three years.

The love he had for her and the hate he had for her twisted together in his gut, making him want to vomit.

"Call Corbin Bancroft," Haden ordered, his voice suddenly flat and deadly.

Mitch hesitated. "The CEO of Allied Capital? Sir, they are our biggest rival. They've been trying to force a marriage alliance for months."

Haden smiled. It was a cruel, sharp expression. "Good. Let the wolf in the door."

"I'm going to back her into a corner," Haden said, staring at the rain sliding down the glass. "I want to see the look on my dear aunt's face when she has to beg me for mercy."

Mitch knew better than to argue. "Yes, sir."

The Maybach accelerated, the engine roaring as it hydroplaned slightly on the wet pavement. It took the corner sharply, heading straight for the Bancroft estate.

Haden closed his eyes. The red haze of rage faded into cold, hard calculation. He wasn't going to let her go this time. Never again.

The car vanished into the storm, leaving the club behind.