SHADOWS OF THE VISCARI EMPIRE

Outside the grand marble entrance of Chase Bank at 270 Park Avenue, four black Viscari SUVs pulled up to the curb.

Inside the lead vehicle, Adrien sat beside me. He wore a crisp dark grey suit, a black tie, and a golden lion crest pin on his lapel. I wore a tailored cream coat, the gold lion pendant resting visibly over my sweater.

Beside our convoy sat three unmarked NYPD vans filled with tactical officers, coordinated directly by Detective Raymond Vance.

“Sokolov’s shooters are positioned on the roof of the hotel across the street, and two vehicles are parked in the alleyway,” Marco reported from the front seat, checking his tactical tablet. “Blake is sitting in a blue sedan two blocks north.”

Adrien reached over, taking my hand in a calm, solid grip. “Ready, Lena?”

“I’ve been ready for fifteen years, Adrien,” I answered, locking my eyes onto his.

We stepped out of the vehicle simultaneously.

The moment my feet touched the sidewalk, a sharp rifle shot echoed off the surrounding skyscrapers. A sniper bullet struck the concrete pavement two feet from my boots, sending stone dust flying into the air.

Instantly, chaos erupted on Park Avenue.

“Sniper! Roof team, go!” Detective Vance screamed over his radio as dozens of tactical police officers surged out of the unmarked vans with weapons drawn, storming the hotel across the street.

Adrien shielded my body with his frame, maneuvering me smoothly past the heavy bronze doors into the bank lobby as Viscari guards returned fire against two dark sedans that accelerated down the street.

Inside the bank’s high-security vault wing, the thick steel doors sealed out the chaotic noise of the street.

The vault manager—a pale man trembling with fear—hurriedly led us down the marble corridor to Vault 412.

I stepped forward, pulling the gold key code card Adrien had prepared, and inserted it into the dual-key lock alongside the manager’s master key.

With a heavy, pneumatic hiss, Vault 412 swung open.

Inside lay a heavy black steel box.

I reached in, lifting the box onto the counter, and popped the brass latches.

Inside lay my mother’s original handwritten journal, alongside three encrypted flash drives containing the complete offshore banking records, corporate bribes, and murder contracts of Viktor Sokolov and his legal fixer, Marcus Blake.

“We have it,” I whispered, tears of profound relief filling my eyes as I clutched my mother’s journal against my chest.