Chapter 9 - The Midnight Gala in GenevaThe Swiss Alps loomed majestically under a blanket of fresh snow, but inside the private winter estate of Viktor Vance overlooking Lake Geneva, the atmosphere was stiflingly warm and suffocatingly opulent.
A high-stakes charity gala was underway, filled with European aristocracy, bankers, and underworld fixers.
Clara descended the grand staircase on Damian’s arm, turning every head in the room. She wore a stunning, backless emerald-green gown that clung to her curves, her dark curls styled in glamorous waves, looking every bit the high-society power player. Damian was impeccably tailored in a midnight-blue tuxedo, radiating an aura of dangerous authority that made the surrounding guests instinctively step aside.
Across the ballroom, standing near the balcony doors, Viktor Vance—a silver-haired man in his late fifties with cold, reptilian eyes—froze as he saw them enter.
He had been told that Damian Moretti was tied up in New York dealing with the Sterling fallout. He certainly hadn't expected the American mafia boss to walk through his front door holding hands with a breathtaking woman who looked like royalty.
Damian walked straight toward Vance, stopping just a few feet away. Clara stood beside him, her posture rigid, her eyes scanning the room for exits and security.
"Viktor," Damian said, his voice dangerously smooth. "I trust my journey didn't interrupt your evening."
Vance’s face twitched, but he recovered quickly, offering a thin, false smile. "Damian. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure? And... who is your charming companion?"
"My Chief of Confidential Operations, Clara Hayes," Damian introduced smoothly. "She’s quite an expert on stolen memory cards and corporate rats."
Vance’s smile vanished completely. The temperature between them dropped below freezing.
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, Moretti," Vance hissed softly, leaning in. "You brought your little secretary into a lion's den. You think because you crossed the Atlantic you have power here? My men own this estate."
Before Damian could reply, Clara stepped forward, pulling a sleek tablet from a small velvet clutch. She tapped the screen twice.
"Your men owned this estate," Clara corrected sweetly. "Until my team accessed your local servers five minutes ago, wiped your off-shore accounts, and transferred every single dollar of your European syndicate holdings into a public charity fund for orphaned children."
Vance’s face drained of all color. He lunged forward, reaching for a concealed weapon inside his jacket.
"Don't even think about it," a dozen cold voices echoed around them.
May you like
From the shadows of the ballroom, Damian’s elite security detail—who had infiltrated the gala disguised as waiters and guests—stepped forward, their hands resting menacingly inside their jackets.
Vance froze, his hand trembling inside his coat. He looked at Damian, then at Clara, realizing with sudden, crushing horror that he had been completely outplayed.
