The sound of Silas Varelli’s hand striking his wife was so sharp that the twelve people seated around the Christmas table seemed to stop breathing at the same time.

The penthouse on 72nd Street was in shambles.

Silas did not use the elevator key; he bypassed the concierge, took the service lift, and kicked the double doors open so hard the electronic latch splintered out of the mahogany frame.

Sabrina was in the living room, surrounded by open Louis Vuitton luggage, tossing designer dresses, jewelry boxes, and stacks of euro notes into the cases.

When the door crashed open, she screamed, dropping a diamond necklace onto the plush rug.

"Silas!"

Silas did not shout. He did not throw anything. He walked into the center of the room with the terrifying stillness of an executioner.

In his hand was the manila folder Marcus had dropped at his feet.

"Where is Grant?" Silas asked.

Sabrina backed away, her hands trembling, her chest heaving beneath a silk blouse. "I—I don't know! Silas, listen to me, it isn't what it looks like—"

"Where is he?"

"He went to his lawyer's office!" she cried, tears instantly welling in her eyes, falling in rehearsed, pathetic streams. "Silas, Grant forced me! He told me if I didn't let him use my name for the account, he would tell you about... about things that weren't true! He said he would ruin me!"

Silas looked down at the suitcase.

Inside lay three passport holders. One for Sabrina, one for her mother, and one issued under the name *Grant Miller*—an alias Grant had used for offshore corporate accounts in Belize.

Beside the passports lay the platinum bracelet with the diamond leaves.

"You were leaving with him," Silas said. It was not a question.

"No! No, I was packing to come to you! I swear, Silas, I love you! I’ve always loved you! Laurel did this—she’s framing us because she wants your money! She’s jealous, Silas, can’t you see that? She’s an old, barren woman who couldn't give you—"

Silas did not slap her.

He had slapped Laurel once, and that single blow had cost him his life.

Instead, he grabbed the handle of the Louis Vuitton trunk, lifted it with both arms, and hurled it through the floor-to-ceiling glass panel leading out onto the terrace.

The sound of shattering tempered glass cracked like a bomb through the penthouse. Cold winter air rushed into the room, sending papers, silk scarves, and dust swirling into a frantic vortex.

Sabrina fell to her knees, screaming, covering her ears.

Silas walked to the edge of the shattered window, looked down into the dark abyss of Manhattan, and then looked down at her.

"Leave the jewelry," Silas said, his voice completely dead. "Leave the clothes. Take your coat and walk out of this building. If I ever see your face again, Sabrina, I will make sure the State Attorney doesn't give you probation. I will personally fund the prosecution until you rot in Bedford Hills."

"Silas, please!" she sobbed, clutching at his trousers.

He pulled his leg away as if she were a rabid stray.