Chapter 7 - The Private FlightThe private Gulfstream G650 tore through the stratosphere at Mach 0.9, cutting a lonely path across the Atlantic toward Swiss airspace.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was thick with the silent, lethal tension of a war council. There were no flight attendants, no champagne flutes, no casual chatter. Just Damon Castellano sitting at the polished mahogany conference table, methodically cleaning the breach of his custom Sig Sauer with an oiled cloth.
Across from him sat Diego and Salvo, checking magazine loads and strapping ceramic trauma plates beneath their custom-tailored shirts.
And tucked safely in the plush leather club seat near the forward bulkhead was Maya. She was curled up with a heavy leather-bound ledger, tracing the handwritten columns of numbers with her finger. Beside her, resting its massive head heavily across her small sneakers, was the Warden. The dog had been cleared for private transport using Castellano’s diplomatic freight clearance—a luxury that came with owning half the logistical infrastructure on the Eastern Seaboard.
Damon didn't look up from his pistol. "Are you cold?"
"No," Maya said, her voice small but steady. "The dog keeps me warm."
"He's not a pet," Damon said, his tone flat.
"He is to me," she replied simply, looking up through her dark curls. "He used to sleep outside my door in Zurich every night before Mom told him to guard the courtyard in New York."
Damon’s hand paused on the slide of his gun. He slowly raised his eyes, fixing them on the child. "You knew the dog before I bought him."
"Of course," Maya said, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. "Mom trained him. She gave him to the Russian broker as collateral so we could buy fake passports when the Consortium tracked our apartment in Berlin. She told the broker to sell him to the most dangerous man in America—because she knew that if anyone could keep him safe from Vance, it was the man who owned the leash."
Damon stared at her, a strange, heavy realization settling deep into his chest. For three years, he had believed he was the master of his domain, that he had purchased a feral beast from the black market to reinforce his cold, unfeeling empire.
In reality, Elena had engineered the entire transaction. She had smuggled her most lethal protector right into Damon’s courtyard, knowing that one day, her daughter would need a sanctuary guarded by the only man ruthless enough to stand against the Sovereign Consortium.
"She played me," Damon murmured, almost to himself, a dark, dangerous appreciation flashing in his slate-gray eyes.
"She didn't play you," Maya corrected him softly, turning a page in the ledger. "She invested in you. Big difference."
Diego cleared his throat nervously from across the aisle. "Boss... Swiss air traffic control is hailing us. They’re vectoring us toward a restricted military airstrip near Bern. They say our transponder code has been flagged by Interpol as an unverified security threat."
Damon didn't hesitate. He snapped the slide of his pistol forward with a crisp, echoing clack and stood up, buttoning his Tom Ford jacket.
"Tell them we aren't landing in Bern," Damon said, his voice dropping into that absolute, terrifying register that brooked no argument.
"Then where are we landing, Boss?" Diego asked, reaching for his coms headset.
May you like
Damon walked toward the cockpit door, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun was beginning to dip below the jagged silhouette of the Alps.
"We're landing on Lake Geneva."
