LOGINCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
POV: Julian Vane
The library was a tomb of silence, the air thick with the scent of old leather and the cold metallic tang of the safe built into the mahogany wall. I stood before it, my heart a frantic, trapped thing in my chest.
My birthdate.
The numbers felt like a betrayal as I punched them in. 0-6-1-2.
The electronic lock gave a soft, yielding click, and the heavy door swung open. Inside weren't just stacks of cash or gold bullion. There were hard drives, ledgers, and a single, weathered envelope with my name on it in Dante’s aggressive scrawl.
I ignored the envelope for a second, my hands moving to the primary server drive. This was what Agent Vance wanted. This was the "immortality" Dante had spoken of: the digital blueprint of every bribe, every route, and every kill. If I handed this over, Dante Moretti would cease to exist. He would be a ghost in a federal jumpsuit.
But as I reached for it, my auditor’s mind, the part of me that saw the patterns no one else noticed, caught on something in the FBI folder Vance had given me.
I pulled her file out and spread the pages across the library desk. I looked at the signatures again. Then I looked at the "Evidence" stamps.
The stamp on the 2009 manifest was Bureau Unit 742.
I quickly accessed the Moretti server on the library computer, my fingers flying across the keys. I didn't look for Dante’s crimes. I looked for Unit 742.
The screen flickered, a cascade of data pouring down. My blood turned to ice.
Unit 742 wasn't an investigation unit. It was a payroll account.
For ten years, Agent Sarah Vance had been receiving "consulting fees" from Vane Logistics. She hadn't been trying to catch my father; she had been protecting him. She was the one who had buried the original arson report. She was the one who had made sure the "industrial accident" stayed an accident.
She wasn't giving me justice. She was cleaning up the last witness to me. She wanted the Moretti server not to put Dante in jail, but to delete the evidence of her own ten-year partnership with my father.
"She’s a predator, Julian. Just like the rest of us."
I spun around. Dante was standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim hall light. He wasn't armed. He just looked tired.
"You knew," I whispered, gesturing to the screen. "You knew she was on my father’s payroll."
"I knew she was dirty," Dante said, walking into the room. He didn't look at the open safe. He looked only at me. "But I couldn't prove it until I had the Vane data from the airfield. I was waiting for you to find it. I wanted you to see her for what she is before I killed her."
"You let me believe you were the only monster," I said, a tear finally escaping and hot on my cheek.
"I am a monster, Julian. I delivered those chemicals. I lived with that lie for fifteen years." He stopped a foot away from me. "But I never took a cent to keep your mother’s death a secret. Vance did."
I looked at the server drive, then at the FBI file. The world wasn't black and white. It wasn't the Butcher versus the Law. It was just different shades of blood.
"She’s expecting me to meet her in an hour," I said, my voice hardening. "At the old shipyard. She thinks I'm bringing her your head."
Dante’s eyes glinted with a dark, sudden fire. "And what are you bringing her?"
"The Third Option," I said.
I grabbed a blank drive from the desk and began a rapid file transfer. I wasn't giving her the Moretti server. I was giving her a "poison pill" a virus hidden inside the Vane payroll data that would trigger an automatic upload to the Department of Justice’s Internal Affairs the moment she tried to access it on a federal computer.
"She wants a Vane to finish the job?" I looked at Dante, a slow, lethal smile spreading across my face. "Then I’ll give her a Vane. I’m going to the meeting. Alone."
"Julian"
"No," I interrupted, placing a hand on his chest. I could feel his heart thrumming, a steady, powerful beat. "This is my mother’s debt. Not yours. You stay here. You keep the perimeter. If I’m not back in two hours... then you can burn the city down."
Dante grabbed my hand, his grip crushing. He looked like he wanted to lock me in the safe and throw away the key. But he saw the look in my eyes the look of the "Golden Prince" who had finally found his teeth.
"Two hours," he hissed. "And Julian? If she so much as wrinkles your suit, I will spend the rest of my life making her regret she was ever born."
"I know," I said.
I kissed him a hard, fast claim and walked out into the night.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONEPOV: Julian Vane-MorettiThe passage of time in the Moretti-Vane empire wasn't measured by the changing of seasons, but by the accumulation of data. Twenty years had passed since the snows of Moscow and the fires of Hong Kong. The city had grown taller, its skyline a jagged crown of glass and steel that glowed with a restless, electric energy. I stood in the solarium of our hilltop estate, the glass walls offering a panoramic view of the world we had conquered, refined, and ultimately, redefined.I was no longer the young man in the charcoal suit, trembling in a basement. My hair was touched with silver at the temples, and the lines around my eyes were a map of every calculated risk I had ever taken. But my mind was sharper than it had ever been. The "Blood Audit" was no longer just a program on a server; it was a living, breathing nervous system that monitored every transaction, every heartbeat, and every whisper in the city.Beside me, Dante sat in a heavy leather
CHAPTER FORTYPOV: Julian Vane-MorettiThe flight back from Moscow was the first time in five years that the silence didn't feel like a precursor to a scream. The Gulfstream cut through the dawn over the Atlantic, a silver needle threading through a tapestry of pink and gold clouds. Below us, the ocean was a vast, shimmering bluethe graveyard of so many of our enemies, yet today, it looked like a clean slate.I sat at the mahogany desk in the center of the cabin, but for the first time, my laptop was closed. I held a physical pen in my hand a heavy, gold-nibbed fountain pen Dante had given me for our second anniversary. I was writing in the back of the old Moretti-Vane ledger, the one that had started as a record of debt and ended as a blueprint for a dynasty.Dante was asleep on the long leather sofa across from me. He looked younger when he was unconscious; the harsh, jagged lines around his mouth softened, the "Butcher" retreating to let the man breathe. His hand was draped over th
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINEPOV: Julian Vane-MorettiMoscow was a city of steel and ice, a brutalist masterpiece, designed to evoke feelings of insignificance in every individual that walked its streets. We landed in the dead of night, the tarmac slick with black ice, the cold biting at our exposed skin like the teeth of a ravenous wolf. No limousines were waiting for us, no grand welcomes. Just a single armored Zil and a driver who looked as if he’d been carved out of a glacier, his expression impassive as he nodded for us to enter.Viktor Volkov’s estate was a "dacha" only in name a sprawling neo-classical fortress that loomed menacingly against the darkened skyline, surrounded by a forest of silver birch trees that appeared like skeletal fingers reaching desperately for the moon. The closer we got, the more I felt the weight of the moment pressing down on me a sensation as chilling as the air outside.Inside the house, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The interior was an extravagant fe
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTPOV: Dante MorettiThe private cabin of the Gulfstream G650 was a sanctuary of white leather and silence, cruising at forty thousand feet above the frozen expanse of Siberian tundra. Outside, the world spread out like a jagged, ghostly canvas, a frozen wasteland of blue shadows and bone-white snow, stretching endlessly beneath the dim sky. Inside, the air was heavy with the scents of Julian’s expensive tea, a hint of jasmine swirling with the faint ozone from high-end electronics humming discreetly in the corner.Julian hadn't slept since we left Hong Kong. He was huddled in an oversized cashmere sweater, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, betraying the anxiety that gnawed at him. He stared intently at the screen of his laptop; the red blinking icon that once taunted him in the ICC bunker had now blossomed into a complex geometric map, filled with Russian server nodes that pulsated like a living organism."They aren't just the Bratva, Dante," Julian
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENPOV: Julian Vane-MorettiThe air in the high-security bunker beneath the International Commerce Centre was recycled, chilled to exactly sixty-four degrees, and hummed with the electric thrum of a hundred liquid-cooled servers. It was a stark contrast to the humid, smoke-filled chaos of the Celestial Pavilion. Here, in the digital bowels of the city, there was no blood, no fire, and no screaming. There was only the data, and the data was the most brutal weapon I had ever wielded.Sitting in a high-backed ergonomic chair, I let the glow from six curved monitors wash over me, a blue light that felt almost like a second skin. My crimson suit had been shed for a simple black turtleneck and slacks, the shift emphasizing the gravity of the moment rather than the politics of appearance. On the desk sat a glass of ice-cold water and the cloned phone I had snatched from Chairman Han’s dying grasp.Dante was behind me, pacing the narrow length of the room like a caged panthe
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXPOV: Dante MorettiThe Celestial Pavilion was a masterpiece of architectural deception. To the tourists of Hong Kong, it was a historic landmark a three-story pagoda of vermillion wood and gold leaf perched on the edge of a cliff in the New Territories. To the underworld, it was the "Neutral Ground," the only place where the heads of the Triad factions met to settle blood debts.The air inside was thick with the scent of high-grade Oolong and the underlying, metallic tang of the hidden weapons every man in the room was carrying. I sat to the left of Julian, my hands resting flat on the lacquered table. I felt out of place in the traditional silk robe the Lins had insisted I wear, but my HK45 was tucked into the sash, a comforting weight against my ribs.Julian sat with a posture that would have made a king look slovenly. He was the focus of every eye in the room. The heads of the Sun Yee On and the Wo Shing Wo sat across from us, their faces masks of traditional sto







