Chapter 7 - Operation Trojan Horse
Three days later, Gulfstream V charter registration N742X touched down smoothly on a private tarmac at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey under the cover of a dense, autumn fog.
Evelyn Foster—now wearing wire-rimmed designer glasses, her blonde-streaked hair pulled back into a severe, professional chignon, dressed in an immaculate charcoal Chanel pantsuit—descended the aircraft stairs clutching a locked aluminum briefcase.
Waiting at the base of the steps was a sleek black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows.
A tall man in a dark suit stepped out, opening the rear door. It wasn't Marco—Marco was already in New York coordinating the logistical chess pieces. It was one of Matteo’s personal enforcers, a scarred brute named Salvatore.
"Dr. Vance, I presume?" Salvatore asked, his voice flat and devoid of warmth.
"And you must be Salvatore," Evelyn replied, channeling the clipped, icy precision of the Swiss toxicologist she had been studying for seventy-two hours straight. "Your boss keeps very inconvenient hours. I trust my accommodations in Manhattan reflect the urgency of this audit."
Salvatore’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his sunglasses, but he nodded, gesturing to the car. "Get in. The Signore is waiting."
The ride into Manhattan was silent. Evelyn sat in the back of the Navigator, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every traffic light, every passing cab, felt like a potential ambush. But as she rehearsed her cover story in her mind—every chemical compound, every batch number of the synthetic peptide, every fabricated paper trail Antonio’s team had planted in Zurich—she realized she actually believed her own performance.
The SUV crossed the Triborough Bridge and turned down Park Avenue, finally pulling into the subterranean underground garage of a secure luxury cooperative on the Upper East Side.
Salvatore led her up a private elevator that opened directly into a sprawling, penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. The walls were lined with original modern art; floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline glowing in the twilight.
Standing by the bar, pouring a glass of amber scotch, was Matteo Vitelli.
He looked even more polished in person than he had in the Polaroid. Impeccably tailored, silver cufflinks catching the warm interior lighting, he turned as the private elevator bell chimed.
"Ah, Dr. Vance," Matteo smiled, setting his glass down and walking toward her with outstretched hands. "Welcome to New York. I trust your flight across the Atlantic was more peaceful than my cousin's final journey."
Evelyn kept her expression frozen in an arrogant, academic scowl. She did not take his hand. Instead, she placed the aluminum briefcase firmly on the glass coffee table.
"My flights are always peaceful, Signore Vitelli," Evelyn said, executing the Swiss-German accent flawlessly. "Unlike your security arrangements. I had to bypass three layers of encrypted firewall just to verify the lab logs you sent me from Zurich."
Matteo’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before returning with calculated charm. "Paranoia is a necessary tax in our line of work, Doctor. Did you bring the verification sample?"
"I brought the complete audit," Evelyn said, her fingers resting on the combination locks of the briefcase. "Including the exact chemical signature of the peptide used to tamper with your cousin's emergency injector."
Matteo’s eyes gleamed with predatory triumph. He stepped closer, leaning over the table. "And is it conclusive? Does it point entirely to the Westchester estate staff?"
"It points directly," Evelyn said, locking eyes with him, "to the person who ordered the batch from the clandestine laboratory in Milan three weeks ago."
Matteo’s smile vanished. The room went dead silent.
Before Matteo could speak, the penthouse door behind them beeped. The private elevator chime rang out once, twice, three times.
May you like
Salvatore reached for his shoulder holster, but before his fingers could touch the leather, the elevator doors slid wide open.
Standing inside the car was Marco Bellini. And behind him, leaning slightly on an ebony cane, wearing a black cashmere turtleneck and a look of cold, apocalyptic wrath, was Antonio Vitelli.
