“He has the backup transmitter in his watch,” Isabella whispered to me. “The one linked directly to the federal server in Washington.”

“Will they hear him?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“Every word,” Isabella said. “But he has to get Salvatore to admit to the conspiracy first.”

The heavy oak doors of the mansion appeared on the screen, opening before Adrian reached them.

Two men in dark suits stood in the entryway, their hands folded in front of them.

They did not search him; they simply motioned for him to follow.

The camera caught the glittering crystal chandeliers and the dark mahogany paneling of the grand hallway.

It was the house where Adrian had grown up, a place built on blood and secrets.

They led him into the library, where a massive fire crackled in the hearth.

Sitting in a leather armchair by the fire was Salvatore Vale, his silver hair groomed perfectly.

Beside him stood Richard Hart, Camille’s father, holding a glass of amber liquid.

“Sit, Adrian,” Salvatore said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Adrian did not sit.

“Where is Camille?” Adrian asked.