Chapter 6 - A Debt Collected
"Viktor," Étienne said, his voice cutting through the silent expanse of the penthouse like a razor blade. "It’s been seventeen years. You’ve aged poorly."
Viktor Vance didn't drop his glass. He didn't raise his hands. He simply turned around completely, setting his drink down on the marble console table with a soft clink before facing his uninvited guests. A faint, mocking smile lingered on his lips.
"Étienne," Viktor replied, his tone as casual as if they were meeting at a Sunday brunch in the Marais. "I must admit, I thought the car crash outside Lyon was a bit theatrical. But then, you were always prone to melodrama."
"You killed my wife, Viktor," Étienne said, taking two steady steps forward, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. "You signed the transfer orders for the Mediterranean Fund, and when I refused to launder the proceeds through the Marseille shipping docks, you put a hit on my family."
"I signed orders for the greater stability of the European monetary union," Viktor corrected smoothly, stepping away from the window. "You were a minor bureaucrat with an inflated sense of moral duty. You nearly brought down three governments because you couldn't understand that the world runs on blood and ink, not ledger balances."
"And my daughter?" Étienne’s voice rose, vibrating with a lifetime of suppressed fury. "Was a toddler part of the 'greater stability'?"
"Collateral damage," Viktor said, his eyes finally flickering with a cold, hardened edge. "Just like the girl is going to be tonight if you don't hand over the cryptographic keys."
"She’s not here, Viktor," Alessandro said, stepping forward into the light. His Sig Sauer was locked directly on Viktor’s chest. "You lost that leverage the moment you sent your clean-up crew to L’Étoile Noir and left a trail straight back to this hotel."
Viktor let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Moretti, you truly believe you’re holding all the cards, don't you? Look around this room. Look at the security feeds."
With a flick of his wrist, Viktor pressed a small silver button embedded in the marble console.
Instantly, the wall-mounted flat-screen television flickered to life, switching from a live Bloomberg news feed to a high-definition exterior camera view of the ground floor outside the St. Regis.
Parked across the avenue was a black armored van. Through its tinted windshield, the glint of heavy automatic weaponry was unmistakable. And standing right beside the entrance of the hotel, leaning against a concrete pillar with a phone pressed to her ear, was Sophie.
Alessandro’s blood ran cold. "How did she get out of the restaurant?"
"She didn't get out," Viktor said, his smile widening into something truly predatory. "She walked out. She figured out that the only way to draw me out into the open was to use herself as the final piece of the puzzle. Like father, like daughter—complete and utter fools."
Étienne’s face went completely bloodless. He looked from the screen back to Viktor, his grip on the silver wolf cane turning his knuckles white. "If you touch a hair on her head, Viktor, the international press will have the complete financial registry of every offshore account you own within sixty seconds."
"Let them," Viktor said, his hand sliding inside his jacket toward a hidden shoulder holster. "By the time they publish it, you'll all be footnotes in a police blotter."
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Before Viktor’s fingers could clear his jacket, Matteo and Luca fired in unison.
The shots didn't hit Viktor—they hit the heavy crystal chandelier hanging directly above him, shattering the massive fixture and plunging the center of the room into a violent, sparking cascade of glass and darkness.
