Chapter 13 - The Zurich ConnectionI flew straight from New York to Zurich, leaving Mara and the boys under the heavy guard of my private security detail in the Hamptons. I couldn't risk bringing them into the crosshairs of a ghost who operated in the shadows of international finance.
The Swiss banking district was freezing, a sharp contrast to the summer warmth of home. The headquarters of Vance & Associates Private Trust was located on a quiet, cobblestone side street near Lake Zurich—an austere, windowless stone building that looked more like a federal penitentiary than a financial institution.
I walked through the heavy bronze doors, clutching the ornate silver key in my pocket.
The receptionist, a woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun and an expression carved out of granite, looked up as I approached the mahogany desk.
"Mr. Whitaker," she said, her voice completely devoid of surprise, as if she had been expecting me for decades. "Mr. Vance will see you now. Penthouse suite. Take the private elevator."
She didn't ask for identification. She didn't ask how I knew where to go. She simply pressed a bronze button under her desk, and the elevator doors slid open silently behind her.
I stepped inside. The doors closed, and the car shot upward with terrifying speed.
When the doors opened, I stepped out into a vast, minimalist penthouse overlooking the misty gray waters of Lake Zurich. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls framed the overcast sky. Standing by the window, staring out at the water with his back turned to me, was an elderly man dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane.
"You have your grandfather's stubborn jaw, Julian," the man said, his voice smooth, cultured, and laced with an unmistakable European accent. "Though you lack his pragmatism."
The man turned around slowly.
He looked to be in his late seventies, but his eyes were sharp, bright, and terrifyingly lucid. A jagged scar ran down the side of his neck—the exact souvenir from the Mediterranean yacht explosion that was supposed to have killed him thirty years ago.
"Viktor Vance," I said, keeping my posture rigid, my hand resting inside my coat near where I kept a concealed legal protection dossier. "They said you were dead."
"Death is a very convenient corporate strategy when you want to let your investments mature in peace," Viktor smiled faintly, walking slowly toward a leather armchair by a chessboard set up on a marble table. He gestured to the opposite seat. "Sit down, Julian. Let us play a game."
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"I didn't come here to play chess," I replied, refusing to move. "I came to find out why you're threatening my family."
"I am not threatening your family, my boy," Viktor sighed, sinking into the chair and moving a white pawn forward. "I am simply offering you a choice. Your grandfather borrowed more than just money from me back in 1980. He borrowed a destiny. And debts of destiny must always be paid in full."
