Chapter 7
Clare was fumbling with her phone, trying to open the car service app, when the headlights of a modified black SUV pinned her in their glare. The vehicle screeched to a halt, blocking her path.
The doors flew open and three large men climbed out. Leading them was Rocco Vance, his face a mask of rage. The heir to the Vance fortune she had just finished dismantling.
"Well, well," Rocco sneered, his voice a low growl. "Look what we have here. The bitch who ruined my family. All alone tonight, Carroll? No bodyguards?"
Clare took a deliberate step back, her heel hitting the concrete base of a lamppost. The position was defensive, giving her a solid object at her back. Her mind was racing, calculating angles and options.
Rocco lunged, his hand reaching for her hair. "You're going to pay for what you did."
She moved. Not like a victim, but like a predator. She sidestepped his clumsy grab, her motion fluid and economical. As he stumbled past, she brought her stiletto heel down, hard, on the arch of his expensive leather shoe.
A raw, guttural scream tore from Rocco's throat as bone crunched. He doubled over in pain.
Clare didn't hesitate. She swung her clutch, a heavy, metal-clasped thing, in a vicious arc, connecting with the side of his head. The sound was a sickening thud. The clutch flew from her hand, skittering into the darkness under a nearby car.
Rocco grunted and staggered, collapsing to the asphalt. Blood began to seep from a cut on his temple.
His two goons, momentarily stunned, roared and charged at her.
Clare reached into her suit pocket and her hand closed around a small canister. She raised it, and with a practiced calm, unleashed a thick stream of pepper spray directly into their faces.
The howls that followed were immediate and agonizing. Both men clawed at their eyes, stumbling blindly before falling to their knees, incapacitated.
Clare stood over them, breathing heavily, her expression as cold and hard as the pavement.
"Get out of my city," she said, her voice low and shaking with adrenaline. "Next time, I won't be so gentle."
It was then that a long, black Maybach glided silently into the parking lot, its engine a deep, almost inaudible purr. It stopped a short distance away.
The tinted rear window slid down. Inside, Dexter Mathews and Thayer Pembroke were watching the entire scene unfold.
Thayer's jaw was on the floor. He'd seen society girls have meltdowns, but he'd never seen one take down three men in a parking lot.
Dexter, however, was not shocked. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips. It was a look of pure, unadulterated appreciation.
Rocco struggled to his feet, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand. "You're finished, Carroll!" he spat. "I'll make sure you never work in this town again!"
Clare laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "The Vance Group is a corpse, Rocco. I just signed the death certificate."
She turned to leave, her work done. But her keys were in the clutch she'd lost in the shadows. She stood there, alone in the empty, windswept parking lot, a sudden, sharp pang of vulnerability cutting through her rage.
The door of the Maybach opened. A polished black dress shoe met the ground, followed by the long, lean frame of Dexter Mathews. He stood by the car, half his face cloaked in shadow, his jawline sharp as a blade.
Rocco started to bluster, to redirect his anger at the newcomer, but one look from Dexter-a look of cold, lethal promise-silenced him.
Dexter's gaze shifted to Clare.
"Need a ride?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble, and it wasn't a question. It was a statement.
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