Chapter 183. When Anton Watches Her

The drive from Zurich to Geneva was a tense, silent bullet-train ride in the back of a leased utility van, its interior stripped and fitted with comms gear and weapons lockers. Leon drove, his focus absolute. Maya hunched over a ruggedized laptop, refining her data probes, mapping the likely internal layout of The Vault based on intercepted architectural pings. Klaus remained behind in Zurich, a nervous but vital link in the fragile chain.

Anton sat on a makeshift bench, his body thrumming with a low-grade, anticipatory current. He checked and re-checked the compact pistol Leon had given him, the movements mechanical. His mind should have been on the incalculable financial wreckage, on his mother’s venom, on the faceless Curators. But it kept snagging, again and again, on the figure sitting across from him.

Sabatine.

He was a study in focused stillness. Dressed now in the same matte-black tactical gear as Leon, he looked like he’d been born in it. He was cleaning his own weapon, not with nervous repetition, but with a ritualistic, almost meditative care. Every slide of the cloth over the barrel, every click of a component checked and re-seated, was deliberate. Calm. His eyes, usually so expressive in their guarded way, were flat, reflecting the dim LED light of the van’s interior like chips of obsidian. He was not the man who had wept in his arms on the mountain. He was not the lover who had mapped his skin in the dark. He was the commander from the data hub, sharpened to a lethal point.

Anton watched him, and a complex, overwhelming tide of emotion rose within him, so potent it threatened to short-circuit his own preparatory focus.

There was, of course, the ever-present, humbling love. It was a constant now, the bedrock. But layered atop it, burning even brighter in this moment, was a fierce, staggering pride.

He had known Sabatine was brilliant. He’d hired him for it. He’d seen his analytical mind dissect lies and build phantoms. But watching him take command in that Zurich bunker had been a revelation. It wasn’t just intelligence; it was authority. A natural, unassuming command presence that made experts fall in line. Sabatine hadn’t demanded respect; he’d simply operated at a level where it was the only logical response. He had seen the board no one else could see, and had moved the pieces with a chilling, beautiful certainty.

This was the partner Anton had unconsciously been searching for his entire life. Not a subordinate, not a sycophant, not even just a lover. An equal. A force of nature in his own right, who chose to stand beside him, not behind him. The revelation was dizzying. For a man who had always been the singular point of control, the apex, to find another apex willing to merge their territories… it was the most profound vulnerability and the most powerful strength, all at once.

And intertwined with the pride, coiling through his gut, was a desire so acute it was almost painful. It wasn't the desperate hunger of the elevator or the tender ache of the mountain. This was different. This was a visceral, primal response to power. To competence. To see the object of his love transformed into the most effective weapon in the room. The sleek lines of the tactical gear, the capable grace of his movements, the absolute focus in his eyes—it was an aphrodisiac more potent than any touch. Anton wanted him with a ferocity that felt almost indecent in the context of their mission. He wanted to peel that gear off with his own hands, not in passion, but in worship. To trace the muscles that carried such formidable will. To claim the mind that commanded armies of data and men with equal ease.

Sabatine looked up, as if feeling the weight of his gaze. His eyes met Anton’s across the van. For a second, the operative’s mask flickered. Something warm and knowing sparked in the depths of the obsidian. He saw the mix of pride and hunger on Anton’s face. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his mouth—a private acknowledgement, a silent I see you, too.

Then the mask slid back into place. He gave a single, slow nod. Stay focused. I’ve got this.

And Anton believed him. Utterly. It was the most profound trust he had ever experienced. He was entrusting his life, his legacy, his very future, to this man’s skill. And instead of feeling like a surrender of control, it felt like an expansion of it. Their combined will was a force multiplier.

Leon’s voice crackled over the comms, low and steady. “Five minutes to drop-off. Final check.”

Sabatine’s voice was calm in Anton’s earpiece. “Anton, you’re on me once we’re inside. Your job is to watch the rear and identify any high-value targets—faces you recognize from Janus or Curator circles. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Maya, you stick to Leon. Your eyes only on the server identifiers. No heroics.”

“Copy,” Maya’s voice, tight with nerves but controlled, came through.

“Understood,” Anton replied, his own voice steady, matching Sabatine’s tone. He was not the CEO here. He was a soldier in Sabatine’s unit. And the role felt right.

The van slowed to a stop in a dark service alley behind a row of imposing granite buildings. The back doors opened to the damp, cold Geneva night. The Vault loomed a block away, a severe, neoclassical facade with discreet, frosted-glass windows and a single, heavy oak door.

They moved as a unit, shadows detaching from shadows. Leon took point, a lock-pick gun already in his hand. Sabatine was a half-step behind, his pistol held low and ready, his head on a constant, fluid swivel, missing nothing. Anton followed, his own weapon a familiar, cold weight, his senses stretched to their limit. Maya brought up the rear, a data-sniffer disguised as a tablet in her hands.

At the service entrance, Leon worked the lock. Twenty seconds later, there was a soft click. He pushed the door open an inch, listening. Silence. He slipped inside, Sabatine on his heels.

They were in a pristine, dimly lit service corridor. The air smelled of lemon polish and old money. Sabatine held up a fist, stopping them. He pointed to a camera in the corner, its red light dark. “Jammed. For now. Move fast. The server room is two levels down, east wing.”

They descended a narrow servants’ staircase, their footsteps silent on the marble steps. The opulent silence of the club above was unnerving. It felt like moving through a museum after hours, if the museum housed a weapon of mass financial destruction.

They reached the sub-basement level. The corridor here was utilitarian, lined with pipes and electrical conduits. At the far end, a heavy steel door with a keypad and a biometric scanner stood guard.

“That’s it,” Maya whispered, her eyes on her tablet. “I’m reading massive, isolated data traffic behind that door. It’s the node.”

Leon moved to the door, preparing a small, shaped charge to blow the electronic lock. Sabatine positioned himself to cover the corridor, his gaze sharp.

Anton watched him. In the greenish glow of the emergency lighting, Sabatine’s profile was all hard angles and focused intent. Every line of his body spoke of lethal efficiency. The pride swelled again, a fierce, possessive joy. This is mine. This magnificent, dangerous man is mine.

And the desire, banked but burning, whispered: And I am his.

The charge detonated with a concussive thump that was eerily muffled in the confined space. The steel door buckled inwards. Leon kicked it open.

Sabatine went in first, low and fast, Anton right behind him.

The room beyond was not a cluttered server farm. It was a sleek, climate-controlled command centre. Walls of glowing monitors displayed cascading logs of the ongoing global blackout, maps with blinking red zones over Rogers Industries holdings, and communication feeds in a dozen languages. In the centre of the room, before a master console, a man in a tailored suit spun around, his face a mask of shock.

Not a technician. A conductor.

Anton’s breath hitched. He knew that face. Friedrich Haas. A reclusive, legendarily ruthless German-Swiss arbitrageur, a man who moved markets with whispers. A rumoured founding member of The Curators.

Haas’s shock turned to a cold, calculating fury. His hand darted towards a panic button on the console.

Sabatine didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate. His pistol barked once, a sharp, deafening crack in the enclosed space. The monitor above Haas’s head exploded in a shower of glass and sparks. The message was clear: Next one is for you.

Haas froze, his hand hovering.

“It’s over, Haas,” Anton said, stepping forward, his voice ringing with the authority he’d reclaimed. “The blackout ends now.”

Sabatine kept his weapon trained on Haas as Leon swiftly zip-tied his hands. Maya was already at the main console, her fingers flying, initiating a controlled shutdown sequence, copying terabytes of incriminating data onto portable drives.

Anton watched Sabatine, who watched the room, a guardian angel of vengeance in tactical gear. The pride and desire fused into a single, white-hot certainty.

This was not a man he needed to protect. This was a man with whom he could build a kingdom, or burn one down. And as he stood there, in the heart of the enemy’s stolen command centre, Anton Rogers knew, with every fibre of his being, that he had found not just the love of his life, but the partner for all of it. And the future, whatever it held, was a prospect more thrilling than any empire.

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