Chapter 78 Showdown
The air in the auditorium vanished.
The NYPD officers froze, their flashlights trained on the royal box. Dozens of weapons clicked as safeties were disengaged, but no one fired.
Because Ida Stevens wasn't just holding a gun.
She was holding a detonator in her left hand, her thumb hovering over the red switch.
"I wouldn't," Ida called out, her voice echoing off the crumbling plaster and velvet. "Silas was a loyal dog, but he wasn't the architect of this trap. I was. The C4 in the tunnels? It's not just in the tunnels. It's wired to the main support columns of this entire stage. If I press this button, the roof comes down on all of us."
"Ida!" Tristan shouted, taking a step forward, pushing me further behind his broad back. "Let her go! This is between you and me!"
"Oh, Tristan," she sighed, a sound of genuine, twisted sorrow. "It was always between you and me. Until she came along and ruined the story."
She rested the barrel of the assault rifle on the gilded railing of the box. The laser sight cut through the dusty air, a bright red dot settling directly on the center of my chest, glowing vividly against the white silk blouse Lonnie had chosen.
"Drop your weapons!" Ida ordered the police. "All of you! Put them on the floor and kick them away, or I turn the architect into modern art before I blow the building."
The police hesitated, looking toward Vane and the commanding officer.
"Do it," Tristan commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that carried absolute authority. "Do it now."
Slowly, the officers complied. The clatter of heavy weapons hitting the wooden floorboards echoed in the vast space.
Tristan didn't drop his. He kept his Glock aimed at the royal box.
"You too, little brother," Ida cooed.
"If I drop this, you shoot her," Tristan said.
"If you don't drop it, I blow the building and we all die together," she countered cheerfully. "Honestly, I prefer the second option. A family tragedy. Very Shakespearean."
Tristan looked at me over his shoulder. His amber eyes were filled with a profound, agonized terror. He had built the cage. He had set the trap. And he had walked us both right into the jaws of the monster.
"Do it," I whispered, gripping the back of his tactical vest.
He slowly lowered his gun, placing it on the stage floor, and kicked it away.
"Good boy," Ida praised.
She didn't lower the rifle. The red dot remained perfectly steady on my chest.
"How did you get out?" Tristan asked, trying to keep her talking, trying to buy time. "St. Jude’s is a fortress."
"St. Jude’s is a business," Ida laughed. "And I am very, very wealthy. The judge may have frozen the trust, but there are always offshore accounts. A million dollars buys a lot of blind eyes on the night shift."
She stepped away from the railing, walking down the narrow, curved staircase that led from the boxes to the main floor. The tactical teams in the wings were useless; she had the high ground and the detonator.
She emerged from the shadows at the base of the stage, walking up the wooden stairs until she stood just ten feet away from us, at the edge of the halogen light.
The white silk robe she wore was stained with dirt and grease from her escape. Her hair, usually perfectly coiffed, was wild and tangled. But her eyes were the most terrifying part. They were bright, manic, and completely devoid of sanity.
She had crossed the line from calculated cruelty to total madness.
"You shouldn't have come back, Minerva," Ida said, tilting her head as she studied me. "You survived the fire. You survived the divorce. You should have stayed in Milan with your cheap little apartment and your stray cat."
"The cat survived too," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
Ida’s face darkened for a fraction of a second. "A minor miscalculation. Silas was always too soft. He should have snapped its neck."
Tristan let out a sound that was barely human—a low, feral snarl. He lunged forward.
"Ah-ah!" Ida warned, raising the detonator high.
Tristan stopped, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were bone-white.
"Look at you," Ida sneered, her gaze raking over him. "Ready to die for a woman who doesn't even want to be your wife. She refused your proposal, didn't she? Silas told me. She rejected you. She thinks you're broken."
Tristan didn't look at me. He kept his eyes locked on his sister.
"I am broken," he said softly. "Because of you."
"I made you a king!" Ida screamed, the sudden volume making everyone flinch. "I cleared the path! Dad was a drunk who would have squandered the company! Mom was weak! I took care of them, and I took care of you!"
"You killed them," Tristan whispered, the horrible truth finally spoken aloud in the cold air.
"I finalized the inevitable," Ida corrected smoothly. "They were dead weight. Just like her."
She leveled the rifle again, the red dot returning to my chest.