Chapter 7 - The Collapse of Frankfurt
By 1:00 PM, the strategy was working perfectly.
The German financial news network flashed a brief update: Kaufman & Söhne initiates internal compliance audit amid liquidity fluctuations. International asset executions temporarily paused.
My father called me, tears in his voice, to report that their corporate accounts had been unfrozen.
The sixty-million-dollar sword hanging over their heads had been paused mid-air.
But there was no time to celebrate.
I was sitting in my car in a parking garage three blocks from Julian’s office, my laptop open on the passenger seat, working furiously with Naomi Price to formalize the forgery evidence.
Suddenly, the driver’s side window shattered.
A gloved hand reached through the broken glass, grabbing the collar of my blazer and slamming my head violently against the steering wheel.
Stars exploded in my vision.
The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
Before I could process the pain, the door was flung open.
A heavy, muscular man in a dark jacket dragged me out of the car, throwing me onto the cold concrete floor of the garage.
My laptop clattered against the ground, the screen cracking.
A second man stepped out from a black SUV parked nearby.
He didn't look like a thug.
He wore a tailored suit and a silver tie—the exact same tie Victor Vale had worn to the rehearsal dinner.
This was Raymond Vale. Victor’s brother.
He looked down at me, his expression completely devoid of pity, his leather shoes stopping inches from my face.
“You’re a very annoying woman, Clara,” Raymond said, his voice flat and dangerous. “My brother told me you were clever, but I didn't think you’d be stupid enough to target a German bank.”
I struggled to sit up, wiping the blood from my lip, my eyes darting toward my laptop.
The drive was still plugged in.
The encryption sequence was still active.
“The lien is dead, Raymond,” I spat, my voice raw. “The evidence of the forgery is already on its way to the federal judge.”
Raymond chuckled, a dry, hollow sound that echoed through the empty garage.
“The lien was just a distraction, you idiot,” he said, leaning down slightly. “We knew you’d find a way to freeze the bank. You’re Clara Vance. It’s what you do.”
My heart stopped.
A horrible realization washed over me.
“The bank wasn't the play,” I whispered.
“No,” Raymond smiled, pulling a cell phone from his pocket and showing me the screen. “The play was getting you out of the house. Away from your sister.”
On the screen was a live video feed from a hidden camera across the street from my parents’ house.
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Two men in tactical gear were standing near the rear entrance of the kitchen.
“Elian’s plea deal is falling apart because of her,” Raymond hissed, his face turning dark. “If she doesn't sign a retraction by midnight, she’s not going to make it to the trial. And neither are you.”
