Chapter 4 - Shadows in the En-Suite
The en-suite bathroom was a cavern of black marble and frosted glass, designed to mimic a luxury spa. Now, it was a blind spot.
Declan crept along the edge of the king-sized bed, his boots making zero sound against the thick carpeting. The air inside the room tasted of cordite, expensive perfume, and metallic fear. He knew Camille wasn't the type to panic; she was methodical, calculating, and patient. If she was retreating toward the bathroom, it meant she had a secondary exit—probably a private service stairwell leading directly down to the subterranean garage.
“You’re running out of time, Camille,” Declan murmured into the gloom, keeping his voice low and steady to test her position.
From the darkened threshold of the marble bathroom, a low, cold laugh answered him.
“Running out of time? Declan, sweetie, look at your watch,” Camille’s voice drifted out, echoing off the tile. “It’s four-fifteen. Your capo, Marcus, thinks you’re still tied up arguing over port taxes in Tacoma because I sent a text from your burner phone ten minutes ago. By the time anyone realizes you’re missing, I’ll be airborne over the Pacific.”
Smart, Declan thought. She had anticipated his communication protocols down to the minute.
Suddenly, a heavy ceramic soap dispenser came flying out of the darkness, shattering against the bedroom mirror with an explosive crash of glass. Declan flinched left—instinctual muscle memory—and in that split second, a shadow detached itself from the bathroom doorframe and lunged toward the balcony sliding glass doors.
She was making a break for the exterior iron staircase.
Declan surged forward, abandoning cover. He crossed the bedroom in three massive strides, diving through the air just as Camille’s hand gripped the exterior door handle. His shoulder slammed hard into her back, sending both of them sprawling onto the rain-slicked metal grating of the balcony.
The cold Seattle rain hit them instantly, driving needles of water into their skin.
Camille didn’t scream. She twisted with feral agility, her elbow driving upward and catching Declan squarely in the jaw. Pain flared white-hot across his teeth, tasting of copper and blood. She scrambled away, her dark denim jeans soaked through, her cashmere turtleneck clinging to her frame. She reached for the Walther that had skidded across the wet metal floor.
Declan didn’t give her the chance. He lunged through the puddles, his hand clamping down hard over her wrist just as her fingers grazed the pistol grip.
“Let go!” she snarled, her face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred that bore no resemblance to the woman he had loved. She drove her knee upward, connecting solidly with his ribs. Declan groaned, the breath rushing out of his lungs, but his grip remained like a steel vise.
“You ruined everything,” Camille hissed, clawing viciously at his face with her free hand, leaving deep, bloody red trails down his cheekbone. “I gave five years of my life to a monster, and you expected me to just sit there and play the grieving widow while you played king of the docks!”
“I built this empire so you’d never have to look at the gutter!” Declan roared back, his voice cutting through the roar of the rain. He twisted her arm behind her back with a sharp, controlled snap of leverage.
The Walther clattered off the edge of the balcony, plunging forty feet down into the dark, churning waters of Lake Washington with a dull splash.
Camille went rigid. The fight went out of her posture in an instant, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. She hung in his grip, soaked to the bone, staring down at the dark water below.
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“Go ahead,” she whispered, her voice dangerously calm. “Throw me over. Make it look like a lovers' quarrel gone wrong. But remember, Declan—if I go down, the federal indictments currently sitting in my safety deposit box in Zurich go straight to the DOJ task force at five o'clock sharp. You’ll spend the rest of your life behind supermax bars, and your precious syndicate will tear itself to pieces within a week.”
Declan’s chest heaved. Rain plastered his dark hair across his forehead. He stared down at the woman he held captive, realizing with terrifying clarity that she had checkmated him even while losing the physical fight.
