Chapter 6
Weston began investigating Holly personally.
Not through accountants.
Not through hired analysts.
Personally.
That alone told Tristan how dangerous this had become.
At 2:17 a.m., Weston sat in his private office staring at an old newspaper clipping finally pulled from sealed county archives in Montana.
HORSE BREEDER ELI BENNETT KILLED IN STABLE FIRE.
Beside the article sat a photograph.
A younger Holly.
Seventeen years old.
Standing beside a black colt with one hand on its neck.
And beside her—
Vincent DeMarco.
Weston’s eyes darkened.
“What the hell are you connected to?” he murmured.
The answer arrived the following evening.
Holly found Weston waiting in Midnight’s stable after dark.
He handed her the newspaper clipping silently.
Color drained from her face.
“Where did you get this?”
“So it’s real.”
Holly looked away.
Weston stepped closer. “You knew DeMarco.”
“My father knew DeMarco.”
“That man murdered three people on my property yesterday.”
“And he murdered my father twelve years ago.”
The words landed heavily between them.
Weston said nothing.
So Holly continued quietly.
“My father bred horses for wealthy clients. Legitimate clients.” Her voice hardened. “Then DeMarco started using our ranch to move weapons across the Canadian border hidden inside livestock transports.”
“And your father refused.”
Holly laughed bitterly.
“He threatened to expose them.”
Weston already knew the ending before she spoke again.
“The stable burned down that night.”
Snow fell softly outside while Midnight shifted behind them.
“I survived because my father shoved me through a side window before the roof collapsed.” Holly’s eyes glistened but never broke. “DeMarco watched it happen.”
Weston felt something cold settle inside him.
Not sympathy.
Something more dangerous.
Understanding.
Because he recognized vengeance when he saw it.
“You came here because of DeMarco.”
“Yes.”
“And the nanny job?”
“I needed access to your world.”
Weston stared at her for a long moment.
Then asked quietly:
“To kill him?”
Holly met his eyes directly.
“If I had the chance.”
No hesitation.
No apology.
And strangely—
Weston respected her more for it.
Three days later, DeMarco sent another message.
This time it arrived alive.
A horse trailer appeared outside the estate gates just before dawn.
Inside was one of Weston’s prized mares.
Dead.
Her throat slit.
And carved into the trailer wall in dripping red paint:
NEXT TIME IT’S THE GIRL.
Mary.
The world narrowed instantly.
Tristan slammed the trailer doors shut before Mary could accidentally see.
But Holly saw Weston’s face.
For the first time since she arrived—
The mafia boss looked afraid.
Not for himself.
For his daughter.
That fear changed everything.
Because Holly suddenly understood something nobody else had.
May you like
Weston Hargrove would burn entire cities before allowing another person he loved to die.
And men like that became most dangerous exactly when cornered.
