Celeste looked at the scarred man who had been more of a father to her than anyone else in her memory.
The sharp, dangerous edges of her gaze softened for a fraction of a second.
She offered him a single, curt nod.
“I hear you, Instructor. I’m taking my vacation now.”
“Good girl,” Luis grunted, slapping her shoulder hard enough to dent a normal human’s scapula.
“Now get out of here. And if that old bastard Archibald Hartwell or his corrupt side of the family gives you any grief, don’t use a suppressed pistol! It leaves too much paperwork! Just use the leveraged palm-strike we practiced! Shatter their dignity, not their skulls!”
Luis smiled.
Then paused.
“Unless they really deserve it.”
Celeste opened the car door.
“I’ll evaluate the circumstances.”
“That’s my girl.”
The transition from the lawless, blood-drenched border zones to the glittering, manicured heart of the capital was a sensory shock that Luis processed with clinical detachment.
The Maybach glided smoothly through the high-security gates of the city’s wealthiest district.
In this exclusive enclave, sweeping European-style manors sat nestled behind centuries-old oak trees, wrought-iron security fences, and private surveillance networks.
And, to Celeste’s trained eyes, filled with vulnerabilities.
She counted cameras.
Security checkpoints.
Emergency exits.
Blind spots.
Potential sniper positions.
Three seconds later, she mentally mapped the entire surrounding district.
Then she sighed.
Luis had told her not to scan for sniper trajectories.
She was trying.
Really.
Unfortunately, eleven years of conditioning were difficult to switch off.
This was the domain of the Hartwell Branch House.
Eleven years ago, her father, Adrian Hartwell, had been stripped of his inheritance and cast out by his father, the ruthless patriarch Hartwell, for daring to elope with a commoner woman.
Instead of collapsing, her father had built ‘Hartwell Technologies’ from a garage startup into a multi-billion-dollar technology empire, dwarfing the old-money Main House in sheer liquid wealth and modern influence.
When the Maybach came to a smooth halt before the towering, double-winged mahogany doors of the Hartwell Manor, the midday sun bounced off the grand marble fountain in the courtyard.
The driver opened her door, stepping back with a respectful bow.
Celeste stepped out onto the cobblestones.
The heavy black wool cape settled around her frame like the folded wings of a raven.
The air smelled of expensive jasmine tea, manicured lawns, and the faint, unmistakable scent of urban anxiety.
She walked up the wide marble steps without hesitation.
The grand double doors were pushed open from the inside by two uniformed housekeepers whose breath hitched simultaneously as they caught sight of her.
Celeste stepped over the threshold into the grand foyer of her family’s home.
The interior was a sprawling display of modern luxury tempered by classical Chinese aesthetics, high vaulted ceilings, polished rosewood furniture, imported crystal chandeliers, and massive landscape ink paintings hanging on the walls.
But Celeste didn’t look at the decor.
Within one-tenth of a second, her mercenary training processed the room’s inhabitants, categorizing them by posture, heart rate, and tactical positioning.
They were all there, gathered in the central formal living area, waiting for her.
And the silence that greeted her arrival was so absolute one could hear the dust motes shifting in the sunbeams.
Standing near the center of the Persian rug was her father, Adrian Hartwell.
He was a tall, distinguished man in his late forties, wearing a tailored grey suit, his temples dusted with premature silver.
His posture was rigid, his hands clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes, the same deep, obsidian black as hers, locked onto her face.
There was a raw, suffocating storm of guilt, disbelief, and overwhelming sorrow vibrating in his chest; his breathing was shallow, his pupils dilated with the shock of seeing a ghost take physical form.
He stared at her as if he were looking at a ghost.
His lips trembled.
“Celeste…”
His voice broke.
“My daughter.”
He took one uncertain step forward.
Then another.
“You’re really home.”
Celeste looked at him.
She didn’t know what to say.
She had imagined this moment countless times over the years.
Sometimes she imagined screaming.
Sometimes crying.
Sometimes demanding answers.
In reality?
She felt strangely calm.
“I am home, Father.”
The words alone nearly destroyed him.
Beside him sat her mother, Grace Hartwell.
She was a woman of delicate, fragile beauty, dressed in a soft cream-colored cashmere sweater.
At the sight of Celeste, Grace’s hands flew to her mouth, her shoulders trembling violently as tears spilled instantly over her pale cheeks.
She looked like a woman who had spent eleven years drowning in a frozen lake, only to suddenly see a hand reaching down through the ice.
Grace Hartwell’s tears began falling instantly.
“My baby…”
She rushed forward.
Celeste didn’t retreat.
Grace threw her arms around her.
“My baby!”
Celeste stood stiffly for half a second.
Physical affection was unfamiliar.
In the mercenary world, people touched one another when administering medical treatment or during combat.
Hugs were practically nonexistent.
But this woman smelled like warmth.
Like home.
Celeste slowly lifted her arms.
She patted her mother’s back.
Once.
Twice.
Awkwardly.
“I am fine, Mother.”
Grace sobbed harder.
“Eleven years…”
Celeste’s eyes lowered.
“I know.”
“Where were you?”
A pause.
“Abroad.”
“Why didn’t you come home?”
“The communication infrastructure was limited.”
It was technically true.
“Did they treat you well?”
Celeste remembered training camps.
Wilderness survival.
Gunfire.
Interrogation resistance.
Explosions.
She smiled faintly.
“I was well-fed.”
Her mother stared.
Celeste continued.
“And I learned many useful skills.”
Her father’s expression became complicated.
But he didn’t push.
Not today.
He simply placed an arm around his wife and looked toward the three young men standing nearby.
“Arian. Sebastian. Lucas.”
His voice became firm.
“Come here.”
Flanking the parents, standing near the arched entryway leading to the east wing, were her three brothers.
Arian Hartwell, her twenty-year-old twin brother, stood with his arms crossed over his chest.
He wore a sharp, immaculate navy-blue suit, his handsome face set into an expression of icy, impenetrable indifference.