The underground club in Geneva buzzed with power, but Ariella felt none of it. She felt a terrible nausea wave in her stomach.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she stared at Alistair Devereux—the man who had been dead for decades.
Yet here he was.
Alive. Powerful. And smiling like he had never been buried at all.
Ariella's fingers twitched toward the knife hidden in her thigh holster.
"Sit, Ariella," Alistair said smoothly, gesturing to the leather seat across from him. "We have much to discuss."
Ariella didn't move.
Her voice was cold, lethal. "You should be rotting in the ground."
Alistair chuckled. "So should you."
Leo's stance shifted beside her, his hand hovering over his weapon. Carter and Vincent flanked her, tense, waiting.
But Ariella?
She was calculating.
Because if Alistair had survived all this time, if he had orchestrated everything from the shadows—
Then she needed to know why.
She slowly slid into the chair, back straight, head high. "Start talking."
