Chapter 89 - The Devil's Terms
Vincent pressed speakerphone and set the device between us.
"Speak," Vincent said coldly.
"You're looking pale, brother," Julian's voice came through, clear and crisp. "Rossi was always a second-rate butcher. Those staples won't hold if you try to run."
Mateo stiffened by the door, raising his weapon and scanning the rafters.
"How did you trace this phone?" Vincent demanded.
"I didn't trace the phone. I own the satellite network, Vincent," Julian chuckled softly. "Did you really think your private security firm in Milan operated on independent servers? Every encrypted relay you bought over the last three years went through shell companies under my control. I let you play the stoic boss because it kept Father distracted while I prepared the transfer."
"Father is locked in the archive vault," Vincent said. "He won't survive three days when the oxygen reserves deplete."
"Good riddance. Let the old hyena rot," Julian replied, without a shred of hesitation. "Now let's discuss terms. I have no interest in your life, Vincent. You were always a blunt instrument—good for enforcement, useless for modern finance. Leave the girl and walk away. Take Elena with you if you've developed an appetite for the babysitter. I don't care."
I stepped closer to the phone, my voice steady and cold. "She is not an asset, Julian. She is your daughter. And she doesn't know who you are."
A soft, theatrical sigh echoed from the speaker. "Elena. How quaint. Do you think maternal affection matters in the real world? Maya has the De Marco bloodline. That blood gives her immense power, but power requires maintenance. You gave her a peasant's upbringing—suburban parks, public schools, cheap clothes. If she stays with you, she'll spend her life running from Lorenzo's loyalists or international syndicates. With me, she sits at the top of the empire."
"By having her marrow harvested to unlock offshore ledgers?" I countered, my voice laced with disgust.
Silence fell on the other end. When Julian spoke again, the playful veneer had vanished, replaced by an icy, razor-sharp edge.
"Vincent has always had a loose tongue. A fatal flaw." Julian paused, the rustle of papers audible in the background. "Listen to me very carefully, Elena. You have exactly one hour. There is a private hangar at Florence Amerigo Vespucci Airport. A Gulfstream G650 is waiting on the tarmac. Bring Maya there alone. Hand her to my transport officer."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then Mateo's family in Calabria ceases to exist by noon," Julian said matter-of-factly.
Mateo flinched violently by the door, his tan face instantly turning an ash gray.
"And," Julian continued, "I deploy the tactical drone circling three hundred meters above your textile warehouse right now. One Hellfire missile through that corrugated tin roof, Elena. Vincent dies. Mateo dies. You die. And my men will pull Maya from the rubble. She'll have minor burns, perhaps, but her DNA will remain entirely intact."
The phone clicked. The line went dead.
A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the warehouse. Above our heads, through the cracked skylights, a faint, rhythmic mechanical whine drifted down through the morning air.
Julian wasn't bluffing.
Mateo dropped his head, his knuckles trembling around his rifle. "My mother... my sister. Vincent, he knows where they live."
Vincent shut his eyes, his breathing shallow and rapid. "He won't spare them even if we comply, Mateo. You know Julian. Once a piece is played, he burns the board."
"Then what do we do?" I cried out, terror gripping my throat as I looked at Maya, who was beginning to stir on the cot. "We can't fight a drone! We can't outrun him!"
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Vincent slowly opened his eyes. In the dim light, the predatory fire that made him the syndicate's most feared enforcer flared back to life.
"We don't outrun him," Vincent said, gripping the edge of the crate to stand upright. "We give him what he wants... but we change the delivery."
