Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Zurich
The encrypted satellite phone on the vault desk vibrated with a sharp, electronic hum, breaking the heavy silence of the underground room.
Damian snatched the device instantly, his thumb swiping the screen to accept the secure feed.
"Speak," he commanded, his voice hard as iron.
"Boss," came the gravelly, strained voice of Luca, Damian’s most trusted caporegime and head of European operations. "We hit the Swiss chalet in Zurich ten minutes ago. The place was cleared out, but we found the primary server still warm in the basement."
"Did you get Vance?" Damian demanded, stepping away from the desk as his pacing kicked into gear.
"Not in person, boss," Luca replied, sound grim. "He was smart—or tipped off. Private jet departed Zurich Airport for an unregistered airstrip in South America three hours before our team landed. But we pulled the digital hard drives. Every transaction, every surrogate file, every single forged adoption record from Sanatorium Montreux is sitting right here in my hand."
"Send the decrypted files to my terminal immediately," Damian ordered sharply. "And get a Gulfstream fueled at JFK. I want a strike team ready to fly wheels-up to Bogota within the hour. If Heinrich Vance thinks he can hide in the jungle after stealing my family, he's about to learn what a real nightmare looks like."
"Understood, Mr. Caruso. Files are transferring now. We'll be waiting at the hangar."
The line went dead with a soft click.
Damian tossed the satellite phone onto the desk and turned to look at me. The blue light of the terminal reflected off his dark eyes, casting sharp, dramatic shadows across his chiseled face.
"Vance is running to South America," Damian said without preamble. "I have to leave for the airstrip tonight."
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Just hours after finding out my daughter was alive, just hours after holding her and feeling like the world was finally falling back into place, the man who made it all possible was about to walk out the door and fly into a war zone.
"You're going after him yourself?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of the servers.
"I am," Damian said firmly, taking two long strides across the room until he stood right in front of me. "Vance holds the keys to every single person involved in this conspiracy. If I want to ensure that no one ever touches you or Leah again, I have to pull the weed out by the root."
"And what about us?" I asked, a sudden wave of panic washing over me as I looked up into his dark, intense eyes. "What if the Morettis find out we're here? What if they come for Leah while you're thousands of miles away?"
Damian reached out, his large hands gripping my shoulders, his fingers pressing firmly into the fabric of my shirt to steady me.
"No one touches this estate," he vowed, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly absolute register. "I am leaving fifty armed guards, three armored perimeter checkpoints, and my most lethal security detail under Luca’s direct command. This house will be a fortress. Nobody gets in without my explicit authorization."
He paused, his gaze softening just a fraction as he leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from mine.
"And you won't be alone, Clara. You are the mistress of this house now. The mother of my heir. My wife in every way that matters."
The word wife hung in the air between us, heavy and electric.
Before I could process the weight of it, Damian lowered his head and pressed his lips softly against my forehead.
It wasn't a demand; it wasn't a mafia boss's command.
It was a promise carved in blood and devotion.
May you like
"Stay here. Keep our daughter safe," Damian whispered against my skin. "I will be back before she wakes up for breakfast tomorrow."
Before I could answer, he turned on his heel, grabbing his heavy leather tactical jacket from the rack, and strode out of the vault, the heavy steel door hissing shut behind him with finality.
