Chapter 26 - THE SHOWDOWN IN THE FOYERThe grand foyer of the Greenwich estate was in shambles. Expensive antique vases lay shattered across the marble floor, and the smart-control panel by the main entrance had been ripped violently out of the wall, exposing a nest of smoking wires.
Two tactical enforcers were loading equipment cases near the doorway when Roman stormed through the entrance, his weapon raised and locked directly on their chests.
Drop the cases! Roman roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling like thunder. Hands behind your heads! Now!
The two mercenaries froze, recognizing the raw, murderous fury in Roman’s eyes. They slowly lowered their equipment cases, raising their hands just as Marco and the estate detail swarmed through the doors behind Roman, subining them with brutal, efficient precision.
Where is Vince Sterling? Elena demanded, stepping into the foyer behind Roman, her Beretta already tracking every shadow in the hall. Where is my daughter?
Before any of the mercenaries could answer, a heavy oak door at the end of the western corridor clicked open.
Vince Sterling stepped out into the foyer. He was a tall, impeccably tailored man in his late fifties with silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the calm, unruffled demeanor of a senior partner at a Wall Street law firm. He wasn't carrying a weapon; he held a sleek leather attaché case in one hand and a secure tablet in the other.
Roman, my boy, Sterling said smoothly, adjusting his glasses as if he were greeting a client at a country club. I must say, your perimeter security has grown somewhat lax since you retired from active syndicate management.
Where is Clara? Roman snarled, closing the distance between them until the barrel of his Sig Sauer was an inch from Sterling’s tailored silk tie. If you laid a finger on my daughter, I will skip the federal trial entirely.
Sterling didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply glanced down at the tablet in his hand, tapping the screen once with his index finger.
Your daughter is sleeping soundly in her nursery upstairs, Sterling said calmly. My men are professionals, Roman. We don't harm children. We merely execute asset reallocations.
What asset reallocations? Elena asked, walking forward until she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Roman. You're holding empty bags, Vince. Every account you tried to access in Zurich and the Caymans was wiped during the server purge.
Sterling smiled—a thin, condescending smirk that made Roman's finger itch on the trigger.
You think the syndicate’s wealth was stored in offshore bank accounts, Elena? Sterling shook his head slowly. Your father was smarter than that. The real capital—the physical gold reserves, the bearer bonds, and the cryptographic private keys to the global syndicate network—was never digitized. It’s stored in the deep vault beneath this very estate. The vault your husband’s father built in 1982.
May you like
Roman’s eyes narrowed. The sub-basement vault.
Sterling tapped his tablet again. And thanks to Mr. Thorne’s access codes, my team bypassed the secondary biometric lock four minutes ago. The vault is open, Roman. And everything you built—everything your empire ever stood for—is currently being transferred into my corporation's custody.
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