Chapter 16 - Whispers in the Alpine Mist
Three weeks had passed since our confrontation with Victoria at the Grand Hotel. True to her terrified retreat, we hadn’t heard another peep from her, her lawyers, or any lingering members of the Vance family underworld. The Milan Prosecutor’s office had quietly filed away the preliminary reports, and our boutique design firm in Como had officially secured the multi-million-euro contract for the luxury Tuscan resort.
Life returned to a breathtaking, sun-drenched rhythm. The sapphire waters of Lake Como sparkled under the late-spring Italian sun, and our villa felt less like a fortress and more like a true home.
It was a Friday evening when we decided to celebrate. We had just signed the final paperwork for the resort project, capping off the most successful quarter in our company's history. To mark the occasion, Anton suggested we take a spontaneous weekend trip up into the Swiss Alps, staying at a secluded, ultra-exclusive mountain lodge nestled high above St. Moritz.
By Saturday afternoon, we were driving our vintage Alfa Romeo along the winding, breathtaking mountain passes, the air turning crisp and pine-scented as we climbed higher into the snowy peaks. The lodge was a masterpiece of modern alpine architecture—slate roofs, massive glass walls looking out over snow-capped valleys, and roaring stone fireplaces in every room.
That evening, wrapped in thick wool sweaters, we sat on the private wooden terrace of our chalet suite, sipping a rich, full-bodied Barolo as the sun dipped below the jagged horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of violet and bruised orange.
"I still can't believe we actually pulled it all off," Anton said, breaking the quiet tranquility as he swirled the dark red wine in his glass. He looked over at me, his eyes reflecting the warm glow of the terrace lanterns. "From the chaos of New York to the nightmare of our wedding day... to this. Absolute peace."
"It wasn't luck, Anton," I replied, resting my head against his shoulder as we watched the distant lights of the village twinkle far below in the valley. "We built this peace. Brick by brick. And nobody will ever take it away from us."
"Nobody," Anton echoed softly, wrapping his arm tighter around me.
We stayed out on the terrace until the alpine chill began to bite through our sweaters, eventually retreating inside to the warmth of the roaring stone fireplace. The lodge was whisper-quiet, isolated from the rest of the world by miles of pristine snow and towering pines. It felt like our own private sanctuary at the top of the world.
Around midnight, I woke up.
The room was pitch black, save for the dying embers of the fire casting long, flickering shadows across the vaulted wooden ceiling. Beside me in the king-size bed, Anton was fast asleep, his breathing deep and steady.
I sat up, parched from the dry mountain air, and reached for the crystal pitcher of water resting on the wooden nightstand. I poured a glass, took a sip, and paused.
Something felt wrong.
It wasn't a sound. It was an instinct—that same sharp, internal alarm bell that had saved my life on my wedding day.
I slipped quietly out of bed, pulling a thick cashmere robe around my shoulders. I tiptoed across the hardwood floor toward the heavy oak door of our suite, which led out into the main lodge hallway. I pressed my ear against the wood.
At first, there was only the wind howling against the triple-pane glass outside. But then, faint and muffled, came the distinct sound of slow, heavy footsteps padding softly down the carpeted corridor.
*Creak.*
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Someone was walking outside our door. And judging by the deliberate, unhurried pace, they weren't hotel staff.
***
