DEAD MEN KEEP SECRETS

DEAD MEN KEEP SECRETS
The tyres crunched over gravel as Ethan pulled the car into the narrow, unlit street just outside the compound. The road was quiet, flanked by tall trees and a rusted iron gate up ahead. 

Luther Ross’s private residence looked less like a home and more like a fortress—tall brick walls, motion sensors, and only a single dim bulb glowing from the porch.

Ethan killed the headlights and shifted the car into the park. “This is it,” he said.

Adrian leaned forward. “There’s a rear side gate. One guard usually patrols the west corridor. If we’re quiet, we can bypass the cameras. I’ll take the lead.”

I nodded and placed my hand on the door. But before stepping out, I turned back to Ethan. “Stay here. Engine running. If this goes sideways, we may not have time to knock.”

Ethan hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Be careful. Both of you.”

The night air wrapped around us like a shroud as Adrian and I stepped out and shut the car doors quietly. My fingers tightened around the pistol tucked into my coat pocket—one of the few things Ethan had managed to get us from his emergency stash.

Adrian moved with precision, like someone who’d studied every inch of this place. He motioned for me to follow him around the hedges to a shadowed gate hidden beneath ivy. A single guard paced lazily, his silhouette backlit by the dim porch light.

Adrian crouched low and whispered, “Wait here.”

I nodded, heart pounding.

He crept forward, cat-quiet. A blur of motion—then a sharp grunt and a dull thud. The man dropped like a sack of bricks. Adrian dragged his body into a garden shed and returned, wiping his hands on his coat.

“Let’s go.”

We approached the main house, slipping in through the side entrance. The security system had weak points Adrian remembered from years ago—Luther hadn’t upgraded. Sloppy.

Once inside, we crept through a hallway bathed in low light. I could hear faint jazz music playing from the back rooms. The air smelled of expensive cigars and leather.

“This way,” Adrian whispered, pointing toward the spiral staircase.

Upstairs, a single door stood out—thicker than the rest, reinforced. Adrian took out a spare access card. “He never changed his habits.”

The lock clicked.

We pushed the door open—and there he was.

Luther Ross.

He stood by the window in a silk robe, swirling a glass of brandy. His face lit up in confusion, then twisted into alarm as Adrian stepped inside.

“Adrian?” he said, setting his glass down. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He barely had time to reach for anything before I stepped in behind Adrian and raised my gun.

“Don’t,” I warned, my voice steady.

His eyes flicked to me, then back to Adrian.

“Is this a joke?”

Adrian crossed the room in three long strides, shoved Luther backward into the chair, and zip-tied his hands before he could resist. “Sit down, Luther.”

Luther’s grin faded. “You’ve lost your mind—”

Adrian grabbed the front of his robe. “You have two options. Talk to us, or I blow your dirty little secrets all over the press. The offshore accounts. The fake identities. The weapons contracts. You think I don’t have records? I do. All of them.”

That got his attention.

Luther’s jaw clenched. “So what is this? An ambush? Some dramatic vendetta?”

“No,” I said, stepping forward. “This is justice.”

He eyed me. “You’re the girl from the party.”

“My name is Sophie Lane,” I said. “My father was Richard Lane.”

For the first time, real surprise flickered across his face.

Adrian didn’t wait. “Who killed him, Luther?”

He shook his head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Adrian slammed a fist against the desk. “Don’t play with me. Tell us the truth.”

Luther’s smirk returned slowly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Fine. You want to know who killed Richard Lane?”

He leaned forward. “It was a job. That’s all. Victoria made the call. Richard refused to sell his stake, and she couldn’t afford to lose the merger. She offered me a price. I named mine. He didn’t suffer. Much.”

My stomach flipped.

“You’re lying,” I said.

“No, I’m not. Your father begged. Pleaded. Said he had a daughter, a legacy. He thought that mattered.”

Luther looked me dead in the eye. “It was just business.”

Those words.

Those exact words.

“It’s not personal, just business…” The letter. The signature that mimicked Adrian’s. The words that haunted my nightmares.

The rage hit me like a wave. My hand moved before I could stop it.

BANG!

Luther screamed.

Blood sprayed as the bullet tore through his thigh. He collapsed sideways in the chair, howling in agony.

Adrian stared, stunned.

I stalked toward him, the gun still shaking in my hand.

“You wrote that letter,” I hissed. “You forged Adrian’s signature. You framed him!”

His eyes widened, blood streaming down his leg.

“Yes!” he shouted. “Yes! It was me! She told me to make it look like Adrian authorized the decision. I just wrote what she wanted!”

“You destroyed my father,” I whispered.

“I was following orders!” he cried. “It wasn’t personal!”

I raised the gun again, this time to his temple.

“Sophie,” Adrian warned behind me.

But I didn’t lower it.

“Give me one good reason not to end you right now,” I said, tears burning in my eyes.

Luther trembled. “Because I can get you to her. I know where she’s hiding. She doesn’t stay at the mansion anymore. She’s been using another location. A backup estate. It’s where she’s planning everything from.”

I paused.

“Where?”

“I’ll give you the address. But you need me alive. She’s paranoid—only lets people in who she trusts. And she trusts me.”

“You’re going to call her,” Adrian said, stepping forward. “You’re going to tell her that there’s a situation with security at the estate. That you’re handling it, but she needs to check on the west wing tomorrow night.”

“She won’t believe that—”

“She will,” Adrian snapped. “Because you’re going to say it like your life depends on it. Which it does.”

Luther winced, nodding.

I lowered the gun slowly, the fury in me still hot, still rising.

Adrian placed a hand on my shoulder. “We’re going to end this, Sophie. For your father. For all of it.”

I looked at Luther again—now bleeding, trembling, stripped of his arrogance.

“We’re not finished,” I told him. “Not even close.”