Chapter 15 - the letter in the vault
Beneath the Bellacorte headquarters lay the bedrock vaults—a subterranean bunker of steel and granite built in the 1920s to withstand artillery fire.
Victor walked alone through the narrow, echoing corridor of safety deposit boxes, his footsteps clicking against the stone floor. He stopped before Box 114, located at the very bottom corner of the far wall.
He slid the brass key into the lock and turned it.
The heavy steel drawer slid open with a dull scrape.
Inside lay no gold, no diamonds, and no stacks of bearer bonds.
There were only two items.
The first was a pristine, framed photograph. It was taken on a sunlit veranda overlooking the Mediterranean. In the frame was Elena, looking radiant, healthy, and smiling warmly at the camera.
Sitting on her lap was baby Sophia, no older than six months.
Standing behind Elena, with his hands resting gently on her shoulders, was a man.
Victor’s breath caught in his throat.
The man in the photo was not Victor. Nor was it Marcus or Rossi.
It was Julian Vance—looking thirty years younger, devoid of his aristocratic detachment, wearing a simple linen shirt and a wedding band matching Elena’s own.
Victor’s hands began to shake as he set the photograph aside.
Beneath it lay a single sheet of parchment, folded neatly, sealed with red wax bearing the insignia of the Vance bloodline.
Victor broke the wax and unfolded the paper.
The ink was sharp, fresh, and unmistakably written in Elena’s elegant, flowing cursive. But it wasn't dated seven years ago. Nor was it dated three years ago when Clara claimed Elena had died of pneumonia.
The date stamped at the top of the letter was three days ago.
The letter read:
*Victor,*
*If you are reading this, Julian has played his part, and Rossi’s ambition has delivered Sophia back into your hands exactly as we planned.*
*You were never meant to be a father, Victor. You were meant to be a shield.*
*Do not come looking for me in the north. The war that destroyed our yacht was not started by Rossi. It was started by the men who raised you.*
*Look into the foundation of the High Council. Look into what your father buried beneath the cathedral.*
*They are coming for the child, Victor. And Julian has already unlocked the door.*
May you like
Victor froze, the paper crinkling in his white-knuckled grip.
Above him, echoing faintly through the ventilation shafts from forty stories above, the sudden wail of emergency sirens shrieked through the penthouse tower.
