Chapter 13 - The Trap at the Metropolitan Gala
Two days after my visit to West Virginia,
the rain poured relentlessly over the bright neon lights of Manhattan.
The grand entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was illuminated by golden floodlights,
with red carpets stretching down the wide stone steps toward Fifth Avenue.
Limousines and sleek luxury cars pulled up to the curb,
dropping off diplomats,
foreign billionaires,
and high-society elites dressed in black-tie tuxedos and floor-length evening gowns.
I stepped out of a private black town car,
wearing a stunning,
backless emerald green silk dress.
My hair was styled in an elegant updo,
held in place by an antique diamond clip that had belonged to Grandma Evelyn.
Hidden discreetly inside my small silk clutch purse was a compact,
ultra-thin ceramic pistol—undetectable by standard metal detectors—and an encrypted wireless audio receiver linked directly to Agent Marcus Vance,
who was parked two blocks away in a surveillance van.
"Audio check,
Sarah,"
Marcus's voice whispered clearly into my invisible ear-piece.
"We read you loud and clear.
Local NYPD tactical units are on standby within three blocks."
"Understood,"
I whispered back softly,
stepping onto the red carpet and handing my invitation to the tuxedoed usher at the door.
The invitation was made of heavy gold-embossed cardstock,
bearing the name Julian Croft — Annual Philanthropic Gala for International Heritage Protection.
Julian Croft was not hiding in a dark basement or an underground bunker.
Like my father,
he hid in plain sight behind a wall of extreme wealth,
fake charity organizations,
and high-society prestige.
He presented himself to the world as an elite European art collector and philanthropist,
using grand charity galas to launder millions of dollars in illegal assets under the guise of art donations.
I walked into the massive Egyptian wing of the museum,
where hundreds of wealthy guests were sipping champagne near the ancient Temple of Dendur.
The water surrounding the temple reflected the soft amber lights,
creating an atmosphere of ancient mystery and modern vanity.
As I moved through the crowd,
I spotted a tall,
immaculately dressed man in his late forties standing near a velvet rope.
He had silver-streaked hair,
a sharp square jawline,
and piercing ice-blue eyes that looked unnervingly similar to my father's.
He was holding a crystal glass of scotch,
laughing softly with two foreign ambassadors.
Julian Croft.
As if sensing my presence,
Julian turned his head slowly.
His eyes locked onto mine across the crowded room.
A faint,
amused smile spread across his lips,
as if he had been expecting me all evening.
He excused himself from the ambassadors,
handed his glass to a passing waiter,
and walked casually toward me.
"Ms. Sarah Vance,"
Julian said,
his voice smooth,
deep,
and accented with a subtle European cadence.
"I must admit,
you are even more breathtaking in person than you were on the federal intelligence dossiers."
"Mr. Croft,"
I replied,
holding my head high,
my tone cool and unflinching.
"Or should I call you Uncle Julian?"
Julian let out a soft,
delighted chuckle,
stepping closer to me until we were standing just two feet apart near a stone pillar.
"Please,"
Julian murmured softly,
"let us not drag mundane biological labels into our professional arrangement.
Your father was an idiot who thought he was a mastermind.
He thought he could use my capital to play real estate tycoon in Virginia,
and then he got himself caught by his own daughter."
"My father is serving twenty-four years in prison,"
I reminded him firmly.
"And his lawyer is serving fifteen.
If you think your expensive tuxedo and your art galas make you untouchable,
you are making the exact same mistake they made."
Julian’s smile faded slightly,
his ice-blue eyes hardening into cold steel.
"You think you hold the upper hand because you seized Michael's database,"
Julian whispered,
leaning closer so only I could hear his words above the background orchestra music.
"You think because you froze his six hundred thousand dollars,
you have stopped the Croft Syndicate."
He reached into his inner tuxedo pocket,
pulling out a high-resolution photograph,
and handed it to me.
My eyes widened as I looked at the image.
It showed the interior of a private vault in Zurich,
Switzerland.
Sitting on a velvet shelf inside the vault was Grandma Evelyn's personal seal,
along with a stack of original financial deeds worth over twenty million dollars—deeds that had vanished from her home years ago.
"Your father didn't just steal cash,
Sarah,"
Julian revealed,
a wicked glint in his eyes.
"He pledged Evelyn’s master land titles in Europe to my syndicate as collateral for his loans.
If you do not transfer the five million dollars to my Swiss account by midnight tomorrow,
I will execute those collateral deeds."
He leaned in,
his breath cold against my ear.
"I will liquidate every property your grandmother owned in Europe,
dismantle her foundation,
and leave you with nothing but debts and lawsuits."
"You won't get the chance,
Julian,"
I whispered back,
looking him dead in the eye.
May you like
"Because while you were busy drinking scotch and threatening me,
my team just initiated a federal freezing order on every art piece in this room."
