Chapter 9 - THE GHOST OF ZURICHThe private terminal at Zurich International Airport was slick with cold, autumn rain.
Three days after the theft of Alessandra’s journals, Roman and I landed in Switzerland. We hadn't brought the children; they were locked safely inside the Voss estate in Chicago under twenty-four-hour guard by thirty of Donovan’s elite security men.
I wore a dark wool trench coat, my hair pulled back into a tight knot. Beside me, Roman looked like an executioner—cold, silent, draped in a black cashmere coat.
A sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the tarmac. The door opened, and a man in a sharp grey suit stepped out, holding a black leather briefcase.
It was Julian Vance.
He looked remarkably like his late sister, Alessandra—sharp, icy blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a cold, cruel elegance that practically radiated wealth and danger.
"Roman," Julian said, his voice carrying a smooth European accent. "It's been a long time."
Julian’s eyes drifted slowly over to me, examining me with an amused, predatory curiosity. "And this must be the famous Pamela Hayes. The diner waitress who brought down my noble father."
"Where are the journals, Julian?" Roman asked, ignoring the pleasantries completely, his voice dangerously low.
Julian clicked open his leather briefcase, pulling out a thick, leather-bound book with brass clasps, stained with dry sea water.
"Right here," Julian said, holding the book up. "Alessandra was a very meticulous writer, you know. She kept daily entries from the moment she discovered her illness to the day she took her final breath in Milan."
"How much do you want?" Roman demanded, reaching into his coat for his checkbook. "Name your price to burn it."
Julian let out a low, mocking laugh. "Money, Roman? Do you really think I care about your shipping dollars? I have three hundred million euros in Swiss accounts. I don't need your check."
"Then what do you want?" I stepped forward, glaring at the man who shared the blood of my children's captors.
Julian looked at me, his smile vanishing, replaced by an ugly, toxic glare. "I want justice for my sister."
"Justice?!" I scoffed, my voice ringing clear against the rain-slicked pavement. "Your sister stole my newborn babies from my stomach! She forged three death certificates and left me to suffer for fourteen months!"
"My sister was a desperate, dying woman who wanted a family!" Julian spat, taking a step toward me. "And your husband—this cold, unfeeling titan—ignored her! He treated her like an ornament on his arm while he ran his global empire! He drove her to poison herself just so she could feel like she had control over something!"
"She took my children!" I screamed, stepping right into his face, ignoring the rain pounding down on my coat. "She didn't want a family! She wanted an insurance policy for her father's trust!"
Julian reached into his jacket pocket.
In a fraction of a second, Roman stepped between us, drawing a suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster, pressing the barrel directly against Julian’s forehead.
CLICK.
"Take your hand out of your pocket, Julian," Roman ordered, his voice so cold it froze the air between them. "Or I will scatter your brains over this tarmac before your body hits the rain."
Julian froze. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his hand out of his jacket, holding up a small digital voice recorder.
"Shoot me, Roman," Julian sneered, staring into Roman’s cold blue eyes. "Go on. Shoot me. But the moment my heart stops, this digital file will automatically broadcast to every news network in America and Europe."
"What file?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
May you like
Julian turned his eyes back to me, a sickening, triumphant grin spreading across his face.
"The audio recording of the night Alessandra died in Milan, Pamela," Julian whispered softly. "The recording that proves Roman was in the room when she drank the poison. The recording where she begged him to save her... and he stood by the window and watched her die."
