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She decides otherwise. “Of course,” she replies, her haughtiness returning.

She’s going to wage a war of words and strategy, like me.

Very well. “Given that you’re even here, I suppose you and your father had a chat about me,” she drawls.

“I have to admit I was wrong. I thought you actually hated him.” The glare she gives me could cut vault doors.

“Should have known someone with your massive fucking daddy issues would drop everything at the slightest attention from him.”

“Mia, please shut up,” Abigail spits.

Mia rounds on her new target immediately. “This doesn’t concern you, Pierce . You aren’t even family.”

I recognize the unique rancor in Mia’s voice—the cruelty of panic. The dangerous flailing of desperation. I remember it from Dash realizing we would end the wedding heist with his millions.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize cousins Sven and Bjorn over there,” my sister replies, with withering sarcasm.

The hired men have completed their contraption, positioning the sharp metal shaft up to the vault door. Grace glances their way. “Your vault crackers are drilling in the wrong spot,” she observes pleasantly. Nice weather today. Good for skiing. Your vault crackers are drilling in the wrong spot.

The men don’t respond. I’m not sure if they don’t speak English or if they’re just ignoring the young woman trying to tell them how to do their job.

The men flip a switch, and shrieking metal on metal fills the dungeon. One presses his shoulder to their drill. His hulking weight drives the shaft deeper into the door.

Working quickly, Grace pulls from her pocket a tape measure, which she uses to diagram measurements on the door.

Methodically, she marks her determinations in chalky white pencil.

She hefts up her drill, positioning the smaller machine a foot from where Mia’s men have commenced drilling.

With Jackson and Abigail’s help, she hoists the drill’s metal stock up to the vault.

She has Mia’s hires’ attention now, too. Furtively observing her process, they pick up their pace. They don’t know we’re planning to engage the relockers. Grace just needs to damage the door before they have the chance to finish the hole they need to insert safecracking equipment.

Right then, Tom makes his move. His fist fires out with precision, up over his other shoulder, delivering a punishing shot to Finn’s right cheek.

Finn recoils—and doesn’t let go. Instead, fury flushes through his face as if Tom has just given him exactly the opportunity he was waiting for. In the chaos, Sofia makes to run for Grace, but I grab her wrist.

Unfortunately, Finn is his father’s son. Wrath waits just underneath his stony resentment. He lashes out, flinging Tom forcefully into the dungeon wall. My heart stops, worrying very seriously that he’s going to wrench Tom’s shoulder out of its socket.

Looking undaunted, Tom gets to his feet. I wish I didn’t recognize Finn’s expression—as if he’s investing a wealth of family mistreatment, of being forgotten, of feeling inadequate, into his hatred for one easy target.

He swings. Tom ducks with what looks like stage-fighting experience—

Finn is ready for the move. He hammers a second strike into Tom’s ribs.

I can’t follow everything while keeping a grip on Sofia. Finn wrestling Tom, Mia’s men driving their drill deeper, Jackson and Abigail helping Grace with positioning our machinery.

Measurements made, Grace powers on her drill. The compressor howls to life. The suction connects, and the drill pierces the metal. Grace presses her weight to the stock of the machine, competing with the men.

Inside the centuries-old stone, fortified to fend off catapults and lances, the noise of the competing drills is punishing. Everyone in this room must want to flee. We don’t.

The sound of the drilling pitches up, then changes when Grace’s drill falters. “ Shit ,” she mutters.

The vault crackers smirk.

While Abigail holds the drill steady, Grace rushes to her suitcase.

She returns with the replacement bit she’s grabbed from the bag, then deftly replaces her drill’s long shaft, never pausing, never fumbling.

Whatever happens, I’m going to make her a Grace Under Pressure sweatshirt when we get home.

In the corner of my vision, Finn pulls his arm back, preparing another blow—

“Finn.” Mia’s voice cuts into the room. “That’s enough.”

Her shouting over the sound of screeching metal halts her brother. Reluctantly, he settles for clasping Tom’s arms behind his back, holding him still for Mia.

Mia steps closer. “This is your last chance, Thomas,” she reminds him, ruthlessly confident.

I understand her stratagem. She wants to keep us uncoordinated. Weaken us with distraction. It is, I recognize with displeasure, my strategy as well.

I don’t look to Tom, even with our icy exchange in Norway echoing in my ears. I won’t offer my cousin one more silver platter for her complacent collection.

In Finn’s grip, Tom’s gaze finds Mia. His chest heaves with exertion, his usually perfect hair skewed haywire.

“Life is a long time,” he replies. “I excel at many things, but not commitment.”

Now it’s relief I hide from Mia.

Grace’s drill reenters the metal, wailing with renewed vengeance. My cousin grimaces, obviously pissed. “She’s never going to choose you, you know,” Mia says.

Meaning me.

Jackson shifts in my peripheral vision. Tom, however, registers no reaction. “And you’ll never beat her,” he rejoins.

His delivery is flippant. I know him enough to know it doesn’t mean he’s not sincere. Everything and nothing is just a joke to Tom Pham. Even if he weren’t condescending to Mia—which I very much appreciate—the compliment would mean everything to me.

I don’t have much chance for gratitude, though. Grace shifts, looking weary. The men likewise have started switching off, tiring from the effort of pressing the drill deeper. Jackson notices, gently ushering Grace to the side to take her place, pushing his full six-foot frame into the drill.

“She sees you the same way your father does, you know,” Tom says.

I whip to face him, uncomprehending—and find him eyeing Finn. Instantly, I understand. He’s employing Mia’s own strategy on her. Dividing their loyalty. Using his perfectly honed, knife-pointed theatricality to win this fistfight.

“When it’s just us,” he goes on, “she mocks you. Says you’re only good for standing there looking intimidating.”

Finn shifts. Yet he remains grimly resolute.

Jackson and Abigail push the drill deeper, the clamor the perfect complement to the iron-gripped tension filling the room. Every fragment of my concentration is focused on the vault—on Mia, my venomous, vengeful opponent—on my crew, on whom I’ve wagered millions, futures, and fortunes—

Until the noise cuts in half.

Grace shouts over the other drill. “Done!”

Mia’s men glance up, visibly nervous now. They must know she’s triggered the relockers. They confer in heated French. Then they reposition their drill.

Grace evaluates the vault crackers’ movement, cocking her head in confusion. “You can’t get in now. It would take hours, even days. You’d be caught before then. It’s over.”

The men don’t seem to agree. They continue to drill. Grace catches my eye, worry in her expression.

“Mia is grateful for you,” Tom continues pitilessly, “because it means there’s someone your father loves even less .”

It works, horribly well. Just not the way Tom intended. Finn’s restraint vanishes. He seizes Tom’s hair, and I feel a moment of real fear he’s going to smash Tom’s face into the flagstone, when—

Jackson’s there. He moves fast, leaving Abigail and Grace on the vault. He launches himself forward, low to the ground, and kicks out his foot, connecting with Finn’s right ankle.

My cousin collapses, and Jackson is ready. Withdrawing, he pushes Finn to the floor, then drives his knee squarely into Finn’s back, holding him down.

Finally, it’s enough for Tom to wrench himself free. His eyes flash to Jackson’s.

“Thanks,” he exhales. “Nice move.”

“You had him.” Jackson demurs, knee still pressed to the wrestling Finn.

“No,” Tom says. “I didn’t.”

I force myself to strategize, evaluating our position. With the vault damaged, we could leave. Mia’s men won’t be able to get in before security finds them. We can come back another day with a bigger distraction.

Except— Mia . Not to mention Finn. Sofia. Collateral damage the Knives could inflict for their failure. I entered this dungeon determined not to subject them to Ernest Hensson’s misfortune.

“You can still leave, Mia,” I implore her while I release Sofia. Reason instead of resentment. While Jackson keeps Finn pinned, I come closer to her. “You don’t need this. Your family has always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. You don’t need to steal anything. You don’t need the Knives.”

Mia scoffs.

“My father wasn’t even chosen by his father to live with him when our grandparents divorced,” she replies.

The pain in her voice distracts me from her subject change.

She continues as if we’re the only people in the room.

“Even with his mother, he was always the second choice. The unimportant. The overlooked. Do you know what that does to a person? A lifetime of never being chosen .” She shakes her head.

“I do. I won’t become him. Your father proved it—it’s better to fail and be cast out than to be the winner by default.

If I fail today, I fail. But at least I’m trying . ”

I say nothing. New respect for Mia lights in my chest. Past the diamonds, the hundred-thousand-dollar gowns, the relationship she maintains with Leonie, I never really understood my cousin. I never knew Mia walked the echoing halls of her own labyrinth, chasing and fleeing her own lineage.