Chapter 12
Z
The private jet touched down at Zurich Airport under the cover of a dense, freezing fog. The Swiss Alps loomed in the distance like white jagged teeth against a midnight sky.
I stepped off the mobile staircase onto the icy tarmac, wrapped in a long black cashmere coat. Beside me walked David, his hand resting near the hidden holster inside his coat. We weren't here to hide in another safehouse. We weren't waiting for Julian Vance and Travis Mitchell to come to Oregon.
In war, defense is merely a slow death. Victoria and I had decided within twenty-four hours of Travis's threat that the only way to protect my foundation was to strike at the heart of Julian's empire before he could launch his offensive.
A black armored Mercedes sedan idled on the tarmac. The rear door opened, and Victoria Sterling stepped out, holding a sleek leather briefcase. Her face was hardened by decades of high-stakes corporate warfare.
"The Swiss authorities are compromised," Victoria said without greeting, stepping into the heated interior of the sedan beside me as the doors heavy-clicked shut. "Julian has two supreme court judges and the head of the federal banking commission in his pocket. If we try to fight him through international legal channels, he’ll freeze your foundation’s accounts within forty-eight hours."
"We aren't here for a trial, Victoria," I said, looking out the tinted window as the city lights of Zurich blurred past. "Where is Travis?"
"Travis is currently at Julian's private estate in East Lake Zurich," Victoria replied, opening her briefcase to reveal a series of blueprint schematics and financial ledgers. "Julian operates a shadow clearinghouse from the estate's basement vaults. It's where the syndicate holds the physical bearer bonds and biometric encryption servers for thirty different international cartels."
"The server containing Robert's twenty million," I realized.
"Precisely," Victoria smirked. "Julian needs your primary biometric scan to unlock the primary vault. That’s why Travis sent the message. They were trying to bait you into coming to Europe."
"They didn't have to bait me," I said, reaching into my coat and pulling out a sleek, custom digital drive provided by my security director. "They think I'm coming to defend myself. They have no idea I brought a logic bomb designed to destroy their entire clearinghouse."
The sedan wound through the steep, tree-lined roads rising above Lake Zurich, finally stopping at an elevated overlook half a mile from Julian Vance's estate. Through high-powered night-vision binoculars, the property looked like a medieval fortress. High stone walls, perimeter laser sensors, and armed guards patrolling with Belgian Malinois attack dogs.
"It's a fortress," David murmured from the front seat. "Even with my full team, a direct tactical assault would be suicide."
"We aren't conducting a tactical assault, David," I said, lowering the binoculars. "Julian is throwing his annual winter gala tonight. High-society bankers, corrupt politicians, and European elite are walking through those front doors as we speak."
"Just like the Hampton Gala," Victoria noted, a dark spark of nostalgia in her eyes.
"No," I corrected, turning to look at her. "The Hamptons were about exposing my parents to their friends. Zurich is about wiping Julian’s legacy off the face of the financial world."
I opened a garment bag resting on the seat beside me, revealing an exquisite, custom-tailored emerald silk dress—the exact color my mother had worn the night my father was arrested.
"Why that color?" Victoria asked quietly.
I traced my fingers over the cold silk, my silver scar catching the dim interior light of the car.
"Because green is the color of greed," I said raspy. "And greed makes men stupid."
Thirty minutes later, the black Mercedes pulled up to the grand iron gates of the Vance estate. The Swiss guard at the gate looked at the gold-embossed invitation—crafted by Victoria’s master counterfeiters—and checked the guest registry.
"Welcome, Madame Vance," the guard said in flawless French, bowing slightly before waving the car through.
May you like
As the car rolled up the long, gravel driveway toward the glowing estate, my heart hammered steadily against my ribs. There was no terror. There was no hesitation. The girl who choked on her own blood in Connecticut had died long ago.
The woman who walked into Julian Vance’s castle was a phantom born from fire, holding a match, ready to set the world ablaze once more.
