Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Milan
The private jet touched down on a desolate airstrip outside Milan just as dawn was breaking.
The storm had passed, leaving behind a cold, biting wind and a gray, overcast sky.
Adrien stepped off the plane, his long dark coat billowing around him. He hadn't slept, but adrenaline and cold, calculated rage kept him sharp.
Elias followed close behind, looking completely out of place clutching a reinforced laptop case instead of a weapon.
A sleek black Mercedes was waiting on the tarmac, flanked by two imposing men in dark suits.
They were Luca’s men.
Adrien didn't wait for introductions. He climbed into the back seat, Elias sliding in beside him.
“Take me to Rossi,” Adrien ordered the driver.
The driver, a scarred man with dead eyes, simply nodded and put the car in gear.
Vincenzo Rossi was the undisputed boss of the Northern Italian syndicates. He was old money, ruthless, and deeply traditional. He and Adrien had maintained a tense but respectful distance for years.
If someone had brought Adrien’s children into Rossi’s territory, Rossi either knew about it, or he was about to be very angry that someone had violated his borders.
The drive into Milan was silent. Adrien stared out the window, his mind obsessively reviewing the evidence.
The lullaby. The precise mechanical click of the locket. The perfectly forged handwriting. The orchestrated distraction of the empty grave.
It all pointed to Claire.
But if Claire was alive, she was working with someone powerful enough to hire elite mercenaries and arrange a ghost flight to Italy.
And she was working with Elena, a woman who had spent a year living under Adrien’s roof, gaining his trust.
The Mercedes pulled through the heavily guarded gates of a sprawling 18th-century villa on the outskirts of the city.
Adrien was escorted into a massive, opulent library.
Vincenzo Rossi sat behind a heavy oak desk, smoking a cigar. He looked more like a university professor than a mob boss, but the men standing in the shadows of the room were heavily armed and highly alert.
“Adrien,” Rossi said, his voice smooth and gravelly. “You look terrible.”
“My children were taken, Vincenzo,” Adrien said, skipping the pleasantries. “A flight landed near here yesterday morning. Five passengers. Three toddlers, a woman, and a young girl.”
Rossi puffed on his cigar, his expression unreadable.
“I heard about your troubles in New York,” Rossi said carefully. “Your estate burning. The feds swarming. You bring a lot of heat with you, Adrien.”
“I bring money, and I bring a promise,” Adrien countered, leaning over the desk. “Help me find them, and the New York shipping lanes are yours. Exclusive access.”
Rossi’s eyes flickered with interest. It was a massive concession, worth hundreds of millions.
“And if I don't help you?”
“Then I find them myself, and I don't care how much of your city I have to destroy to do it.”
Rossi chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “You always were a blunt instrument, Moretti.”
He gestured to one of his men in the shadows. The man stepped forward and placed a thick manila folder on the desk.
“I already know about the flight,” Rossi said. “I don't appreciate unannounced ghosts landing in my territory.”
Adrien snatched the folder and opened it.
Inside were surveillance photos taken at the airstrip.
They showed Elena, holding Sophie’s hand, walking down the steps of the private jet.
Behind them, carrying Theo and Miles, were two large men Adrien didn't recognize. Another man carried Nora.
But it was the last photo that made Adrien’s blood run cold.
Standing near the tail of the plane, orchestrating the movement, was a woman.
She was wearing a dark coat, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring her face, and dark sunglasses.
But the posture, the slight favor of the left leg, was unmistakable.
It was Claire.
Adrien stared at the photo, his breath catching in his throat.
She was alive. She was really alive.
“Where did they go?” Adrien demanded, his voice shaking slightly.
“They didn't stay in Milan,” Rossi said, leaning back in his chair. “They transferred to a heavily armored convoy and headed north, toward the Alps.”
“Where exactly?”
“Lake Como,” Rossi revealed. “To a private compound owned by a man named Julian Vance.”
Adrien froze.
Julian Vance.
The name hit him like a physical blow.
Julian Vance wasn't a mob boss. He wasn't a rival.
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Julian Vance was Claire’s older brother.
The brother she had claimed died in a boating accident ten years ago.
