He turned slowly, his gray hair perfectly coiffed, his tailored suit immaculate.

His eyes slid from Jonathan to me, a thin, mocking smile touching his thin lips.

“And you brought the artist,” Harrison said. “How poetic.”

“This ends tonight, Harrison,” Jonathan said, stepping forward.

He threw the leather folder onto the polished mahogany conference table.

It slid across the dark wood, stopping inches from Harrison’s empty glass.

Harrison looked down at it, then back up at his nephew.

“What is this?” Harrison asked.

“Your offshore holdings in the Caymans,” Jonathan said. “The dummy corporations you used to siphon fifty million dollars from the Berlin project.”

Harrison did not look surprised.

He did not even look worried.

He merely took a slow, deliberate sip of his scotch.

“You have been busy, Jonathan,” he said.

“Withdraw the custody petition,” I said, stepping up beside Jonathan. “Leave my children alone.”

Harrison turned his cold gaze to me.

“Your children?” Harrison asked softly. “They are Vances, Mariana. They carry our blood.”

“They are mine,” I said, my voice trembling with rage. “You will not touch them.”

“I already have,” Harrison said.