Chapter 5 - The Resurrection of the Dead
The encrypted photo burned into my screen, the digital pixels practically mocking my absolute certainty.
Viktor Vance.
Not only was he alive, but he was standing outside Claire Sterling’s miserable little apartment building, handing her a fresh envelope of cash and a burner phone. The man who had allegedly embezzled thirty million from Steel Global’s European division before supposedly perishing in an arson-torched warehouse fire in Germany.
The math suddenly slammed into place with terrifying clarity.
Arthur’s death wasn't just a tragic accident. The financial ruin, the manufactured stress, Claire’s sudden cruelty, the forged trust documents—it wasn't random malice. It was a coordinated corporate hit orchestrated by a ghost I thought I had buried.
“Marco,” I spoke into the encrypted channel, my voice chillingly calm as I walked back inside from the balcony.
“I’m awake, boss,” Marco answered instantly. “Saw the photo. The facial recognition match is ninety-nine point eight percent. Viktor Vance never died in Munich. He bribed the coroner, faked dental records, and vanished into Eastern Europe while our legal team was tied up in civil litigation.”
“He thinks he’s safe,” I said, slipping my jacket back over my shoulders. “He thinks he can come back to Chicago and pick up the pieces of the empire he tried to steal.”
“What about the kids, Mr. Steel? Should I dispatch an extra tactical detail to the penthouse?”
“Double the perimeter guards. No one enters or leaves this building without biometric clearance from my personal terminal. If Viktor thinks he can use Lily and Owen as leverage against me, he’s about to learn why they call me the Steel Guillotine.”
I walked quietly down the corridor to the children’s wing. Pushing the door open a fraction of an inch, I watched them in the soft glow of their nightlights. Lily was curled tightly around her pink blanket; Owen had his arm thrown protectively over Barnaby.
They were sleeping peacefully, completely unaware that a war for their future—and for our family—was about to erupt across the city.
I quietly closed the door, stepped into the elevator, and descended into the underground subterranean garage where my armored Maybach was waiting.
May you like
“Where to, Mr. Steel?” the driver asked.
“The old shipping yards on Pier 42,” I replied, settling into the leather seat. “Let’s go welcome an old friend back from the dead.”
