Chapter 18 - The Family Tree Bleeds Black
The name hit me like a physical blow. Marcus.
Marcus Vance—Doña Carmela’s eldest brother, a shadowy billionaire tycoon based primarily in Zurich and London, who had supposedly retired from the family empire years ago. He was the invisible pillar of the Vance dynasty, the man who operated entirely behind the scenes, pulling the strings that even Carmela had been too arrogant to see. We had assumed he was completely indifferent to our departure, too high up in his ivory tower to care about a corporate succession battle in New York.
We were catastrophically wrong.
By dawn, the local Swiss authorities had been called to the lodge, but Marcus’s operative had long vanished into the impenetrable alpine wilderness, leaving behind only torn fabric, boot prints in the deep snow, and the amber glass vial left on our nightstand. Forensic analysis later confirmed what we already suspected: the vial contained a synthetic, fast-acting neurotoxin designed to induce complete respiratory arrest within minutes—undetectable in standard autopsies unless specifically tested for.
Marcus hadn't sent Victoria as his primary weapon; she had been a smoke screen, a rogue agent trying to carve out her own piece of the pie. Marcus was the architect.
"He's not going to stop," Anton said grimly as we sat by the roaring fireplace in our chalet, wrapped in heavy blankets while federal investigators combed the grounds outside. "To Marcus, the Vance name isn't just a business—it's a bloodline. The idea that an outsider like you outsmarted the family matriarch, took over our assets, and escaped to Europe... it's an insult to his entire legacy. He views us as a loose end that needs to be permanently tied off."
"Then we stop running," I said, my voice dropping into a cold, unbreakable resolve. I looked at Anton, seeing the fierce, unyielding spirit of the man I loved staring back at me. "We don't pack our bags, we don't hide in Como, and we don't wait for his next hit squad. We take the fight straight to Zurich."
Anton blinked in surprise, then a slow, dangerous smile crept across his lips. "Zurich? Marcus's home turf? That's walking straight into the lion's den."
"No," I corrected him, standing up and tossing my blanket onto the sofa. "That's walking into the boardroom. Marcus operates in the shadows because he's protected by layers of corporate secrecy, dummy corporations, and Swiss banking laws. But every empire has a foundation. And every foundation has a crack."
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Within forty-eight hours, we abandoned our alpine getaway and flew straight to Zurich, Switzerland—not as fleeing targets, but as heavily armed combatants ready for corporate warfare.
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