The Mistress
I inserted the key into the shadow of the pedestal and turned.
There was no sound—no cinematic grinding of gears. Instead, the obsidian bust shifted three inches to the left, revealing a narrow, vertical slit in the wall just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.
“Twelve minutes, Victoria,” Sophie warned, her eyes darting to the security camera that was currently frozen on a loop of empty air. “Go. I’ll keep the jammer hot.”
The air inside the vault smelled of ozone and ancient parchment. It was small, a concrete cube buried deep beneath the foundation, containing only three filing cabinets and a single, heavy wooden desk. This wasn’t where Silas kept his money—this was where he kept