THE GHOST WIFE'S REVENGE: UNMASKING THE MATRIARCH'S DEADLY LIES

The air in the Kincaid Tower penthouse grew razor-sharp within seconds of Eleanor’s announcement. The rain outside had turned into a torrential downpour, streaks of water battering the high-rise windows like shrapnel.

“How did they coordinate an ambush in under three hours?” I demanded, turning to Marcus Vance, who had just stepped back into the room with his hand resting on his service weapon.

“Finch wasn’t just Daria’s head of security; he’s ex-special forces with ties to private military contractors in Eastern Europe,” Marcus replied, his voice tense. “Daria had a dead-man protocol set up in case she was ever detained. A separate encrypted escrow account released five million dollars the moment her biometrics failed to check in at midnight. Finch has a strike team, and he knows every entry point to this building.”

Catherine instinctively pulled Penelope closer, stepping toward the reinforced panic room. “He’s coming here. He knows Samuel and I are the only witnesses who can tie him directly to the Blackwood facility and the attempted murders.”

“He won’t get near this floor,” Marcus said, pulling his radio. “I have eight federal tactical officers stationed in the lobby and four on the service elevators. Sector Nine—the underground parking and maintenance tunnels—is sealed.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered twice and died.

The entire penthouse plunged into pitch-black darkness, save for the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the rainy windows. An instant later, the emergency backup generators hummed to life, bathing the hallways in a haunting, pale red emergency light.

Static hissed through Marcus’s tactical earpiece.

“Team Leader! This is Lobby Post! We’ve got smoke grenades in the east lobby—they cut the main power grid from the basement! We are taking fire—repeat, taking suppressed fire!”

Gunshots echoed in the distance, muffled by the concrete and steel of sixty floors.

“They didn’t take the elevators,” I realized, my blood running cold. “Finch knows about the old maintenance hoist inside the ventilation shaft—the one my father built for structural inspections.”

“Catherine, get into the panic room right now!” I shouted.

Before she could reach the reinforced steel door, the glass of the panoramic balcony shattered with an ear-splitting crash.

A stun grenade rolled across the hardwood floor.

“DOWN!” Marcus yelled, tackling Eleanor behind the marble kitchen island.

BANG!

A blinding flash of white light and a concussive shockwave ripped through the room, ringing in my ears and blinding my vision. Through the smoke, two heavily armed figures in black tactical gear and night-vision goggles vaulted through the shattered window frame, assault rifles raised.

Behind them stepped Arthur Finch, his face bloodied from the highway escape, holding a tactical shotgun.

“Did you really think some federal badges could protect you, Samuel?” Finch growled, his voice distorted by a throat mic. “Daria might be finished, but I’m not spending the rest of my life in a federal penitentiary because of your little family reunion!”

Finch raised his weapon, aiming directly at the bedroom where Catherine had shielded Penelope with her own body.

Adrenaline surged through my veins, wiping away the disorientation of the flashbang. I grabbed the heavy bronze sculpture from the side table and hurled it with all my strength at the nearest gunman, striking his weapon just as he fired. The stray bullet tore into the ceiling, showering plaster over the room.

Marcus popped up from behind the island, firing three controlled shots. The second gunman collapsed, clutching his shoulder.

Finch swung his shotgun toward Marcus, but I didn't give him the chance. I charged across the slick, rain-soaked floor, tackling Finch around the waist with the full force of my body.

We slammed into the glass conference table, shattering it into thousands of tempered fragments. Finch roared in rage, throwing an elbow into my ribs that knocked the breath from my lungs. He was heavier, trained for close-quarters combat, and driven by pure survival instinct. He pinned me to the floor, wrapping his thick, calloused hands around my throat.

“I should have put a bullet in you two years ago along with your wife!” Finch hissed, his thumbs digging into my windpipe, cutting off my air.

Dark spots began dancing across my vision. I struggled to pry his fingers loose, but his grip was like an iron vise.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic CLANG echoed through the room.

Finch’s eyes rolled back. His grip slackened, and he slumped sideways onto the shattered glass.

Standing over him, breathing heavily, was Catherine. In her hands, she held the heavy cast-iron fire poker from the fireplace, her knuckles white, her eyes burning with a fierce, maternal fury that could have leveled mountains.

“Stay away from my family,” she whispered, her voice shaking with raw power.

Marcus rushed over, placing his knee firmly on Finch’s back and securing his hands in titanium cuffs before kicking the shotgun away.

I sat up, coughing and clutching my throat, gasping for air. Catherine dropped the poker and knelt beside me, her arms wrapping around my neck as she buried her face against my shoulder, sobbing with relief.

From the hallway, Penelope began to cry—loud, healthy, and full of life.

I pulled Catherine tight against me, kissing her rain-soaked hair while listening to the distant sirens converging on Kincaid Tower from every corner of the city.