Chapter 9
The silence that settled over the medical room was colder than the mountain rain.
Florian didn't move. His hand remained wrapped around Clara’s, but his eyes turned into twin points of black ice.
"The Montreal cartel," Florian said, his voice dropping into a register that made the monitoring equipment seem unnervingly loud. "Only three people in my organization knew about the negotiations with Montreal. Vane. Cross. And my chief financial officer, Julian Vance."
"Julian," Clara whispered, fresh tears welling in her eyes. "He’s Hadrian’s cousin, Dad. He’s the one who gave Hadrian the blueprint for the conservatorship. He told Hadrian that if they took control of my trusts, they could override your veto on the northern border ports. They promised the cartel full transit through the rail yards."
Florian felt the world shift beneath his feet—not with panic, but with the terrifying clarity that comes before a massacre.
Julian Vance had sat at Florian’s right hand for twelve years. He had managed the corporate trusts, audited the shell companies, and eaten dinner at Florian’s table every Christmas. Florian had funded Julian’s education, bought him his penthouse on Park Avenue, and treated him like a nephew.
"Where is Julian now?" Florian asked quietly.
"He was supposed to meet Hadrian at the private airstrip in Pittsfield," Clara said, her voice shaking. "They were going to fly to Zurich together to initiate the wire transfers once the Swiss banks opened on Monday morning."
Florian checked his steel wristwatch. It was 4:45 AM.
He leaned down and kissed Clara’s forehead, then kissed Tilda’s cheek. "Rest now, both of you. You are in my house. There are forty armed men between this room and the gate. Nothing touches you."
He turned and walked out of the medical room, closing the door behind him.
Vane was waiting in the hallway, holding a fresh cup of black coffee and a tactical tablet.
"Boss," Vane said. "We got a hit on Julian Vance’s encrypted cell signal. He isn't at Pittsfield."
Florian stopped in the corridor. "Where is he?"
"He’s at the private corporate marina in Jersey City," Vane said, showing the screen. "A fifty-foot yacht registered to a shell company just filed an engine startup with the harbor master. Destination: Halifax."
"He knows," Florian said.
"Yes, Boss. When Hadrian didn't answer his satellite phone at the airfield, Julian realized the extraction failed. He’s liquidating and fleeing by water."
Florian walked toward the elevator leading down to the private garage. His overcoat was dry now, hanging over his arm. His face was devoid of exhaustion; adrenaline and pure, unadulterated vengeance had burned away every trace of fatigue.
"Get the helicopter ready," Florian said. "We fly to the harbor."
"Are we taking local law enforcement, Mr. Ravensmere?" Vane asked, testing the waters.
May you like
Florian looked at his right-hand man. The gold signet ring on his finger caught the hall light.
"Julian Vance stole from my company, abused my trust, and put hands on my daughter," Florian said, stepping into the elevator. "The law doesn't have enough rope for what I’m going to do to him."
