After four years behind bars, I came home hoping for nothing more than to hug my father, but my stepmother opened the front door and said, “He passed away eight months ago. This property belongs to me now.” I silently walked to the graveyard with an old key in my pocket, completely unaware that the caretaker was about to whisper something that would shatter my reality.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't paint this carpet with you," Silas Vance growled, cocking the shotgun.

I slowly raised my hands.

"Because firing that gun brings the cops," I said calmly. "And I know for a fact that the Picasso hanging behind you is reported stolen."

Vance’s eyes narrowed. "Who the hell are you?"

"I’m Julian Sterling. That clock used to belong to my father. The woman who sold it to you stole it from him. I didn't come to rob you, Mr. Vance. I came to retrieve what’s mine."

I slowly pulled the black ledger from my waistband and tossed it onto the desk between us.

"Open it," I said.

Vance kept the gun leveled at me but used his free hand to flip the book open. His eyes scanned the numbers. Being a man of questionable business practices himself, he instantly recognized what he was looking at.

"Money laundering," Vance murmured. "Millions."

"Exactly. Tomorrow morning, the woman who wrote those numbers is going to try to sell my father's company and skip the country. If you let me walk out of here with this book, you get to keep the clock, the stolen art, and your quiet life. If you pull that trigger, the FBI will tear this house down to the studs."

Vance stared at me for a long, agonizing moment.

Slowly, he lowered the shotgun.

"You've got guts, kid," he grunted, tossing the ledger back to me. "Take your book and get the hell out of my house. The front door is unlocked."

I didn't waste a second. I grabbed the ledger, tipped my head in thanks, and walked out the front door like I owned the place.