Chapter 8 - Secrets Buried in the Vault
Gunfire flared in the dark, muzzle flashes lighting the room in strobe-like bursts of violence.
I grabbed Evelyn by the waist, shielding her body with mine as bullets tore through the silk drapes and marble pillars around us.
“Dante! Clear the southern exit!” I shouted over the din of shattering glass and echoing screams.
“Covering you, Boss! Move!”
We sprinted through the private service corridors of the Plaza, taking down two of Damian’s hitmen before bursting into the rainy night alley where an armored SUV was waiting with the engine running.
We piled into the back, the heavy reinforced doors slamming shut just as a hail of submachine gun rounds pinged harmlessly against the ballistic glass.
“Airport!” I ordered the driver. “Now!”
As the SUV accelerated into the rainy avenues of the city, Evelyn slumped against my shoulder, breathing heavily. Her emerald dress was torn at the shoulder, but she was unharmed.
She looked at the brass key still clutched tightly in her palm.
“They’re willing to slaughter an entire room of innocent people just to stop us from opening that vault,” she said, her voice shaking with righteous fury.
“Because what’s inside that vault doesn't just destroy their reputations,” I said, bandaging a minor graze on my forearm. “It strips them of their legal protection. Julian Vance was a genius. He knew the syndicate’s dark money was funnelled through shell corporations registered in Zurich. With this key and your biometric match, we can freeze every single asset Damian and Castillo control.”
“Then let’s go to Switzerland,” Evelyn said, sitting up straight, her eyes blazing with determination. “Let’s finish them.”
Twelve hours later, under forged diplomatic passports, our private jet touched down in Zurich.
We entered the subterranean vault of the Blackwood Private Bank, deep beneath the Swiss mountains. The vault custodian, an elderly man with pristine white gloves, examined the brass key and Evelyn’s retina scan with solemn reverence.
“Welcome back, Miss Vance,” the banker said with a deep bow. “Your father’s instructions have been preserved without alteration for twenty-five years.”
A heavy steel door hissed open, revealing a private safety deposit room.
Inside lay a single steel briefcase.
I helped Evelyn lift the case onto the table. She entered the eight-digit code.
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The latches popped open with a heavy mechanical click.
Inside were four encrypted flash drives, a stack of original corporate charters bearing my father’s and Julian Vance’s signatures, and an audio cassette labeled in neat, handwritten cursive: For My Daughter, When the Time Comes.
