Chapter 14 - The Marseille Connection
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"GAH!" Donovan shrieked, yanking his scalded left hand back from the keyboard and leaping up from his leather chair as sparks popped from the coffee-drenched macro keys—freezing the terminal screen mid-transfer without triggering the wipe!
With his right hand, Donovan lunged wildly inside his open suit cardigan toward a compact .38 revolver tucked into his belt.
Before his fingers even touched the grip, Elena swung the heavy solid-silver coffee tray sideways with both hands and slammed the edge straight across Donovan’s forearm, knocking his hand wide just as Lucian and Dante burst through the frosted glass door!
Lucian crossed the carpet in two strides, vaulted straight over the corner of the mahogany desk, and drove his forearm into Donovan’s throat, pinning the accountant flat on his back against the bookshelf with the muzzle of his suppressed 1911 pressed hard into the soft skin beneath Donovan’s chin.
"Touch that gun again, Arthur," Lucian whispered, his eyes colder than Arctic ice, "and we’ll see how fast my cleaners can get blood out of this rug."
Donovan went completely limp, whimpering as he cradled his red, coffee-scalded left hand against his chest, staring past Lucian’s shoulder in utter shock at Elena—who had calmly untied the white apron and set the dented silver tray down on his credenza.
"It was you," Donovan gasped, realization dawning behind his crooked spectacles as he looked at Elena. "Sabatini’s lawyer said a temp girl read the Genoa contract in the boardroom on Tuesday... I thought they meant Clara’s paralegal!"
"You never looked up from your bagel long enough to notice who was standing in your office, Mr. Donovan," Elena said coolly, stepping around the desk to examine the frozen transfer screen before the screensaver could lock it.
She rapidly scanned the open encrypted chat window in the corner of the monitor—written in the exact Corsican-Italian hybrid code she had heard him speaking on the phone last Thursday.
"Lucian, look at the recipient bank and the message log," Elena said sharply, pointing at the screen. "Donovan didn't start working for Raffaele Costa last month. Look at the archive dates—he’s been sending quarterly shipping schedules to Naples for six years!"
Lucian glanced at the screen without taking the gun barrel off Donovan’s windpipe. "Six years? My father was still running the company six years ago."
"Your father cut my pension share after the 2018 audit!" Donovan spat, sweat pouring down his bald head as terror made him reckless. "Raffaele Costa paid me two million in Geneva to route the Bellini Star through the Marseille chemical brokers—and when you took over and started auditing the European routes three months ago, Costa decided it was time to retire your whole bloodline!"
Elena’s eyes dropped to the bottom line of the French message Donovan had received ten minutes ago from a satellite number in international waters:
Le colis de Marseille est déjà au quai 90. Le vieux professeur sera notre billet de sortie à midi.
Elena’s blood turned to solid ice in her veins.
"What does that last line say, Elena?" Lucian asked, hearing the sudden catch in her breath.
"The package from Marseille is already at Pier 90," Elena whispered, her hands trembling as she grabbed Lucian’s sleeve. "And 'the old professor will be our exit ticket at noon.'"
Her father.
Lucian slammed Donovan’s head back against the bookshelf hard enough to rattle his teeth. "How the hell does Costa know where her father is?! I moved him to the Carlyle yesterday afternoon under a blind corporate shell!"
"You didn't use a blind corporate shell for his medical records!" Donovan laughed wildly, blood on his teeth. "Your medical insurance coordinator in HR processed the home-care transfer order for Nurse Francesca at five o’clock yesterday afternoon—and every medical disbursement over ten thousand dollars crosses my accounting terminal automatically for tax sign-off!"
Elena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
The Carlyle Residence was impervious to a street-level hit squad—which meant Costa’s men weren't going to storm the front lobby with guns.
Wait.
"Nurse Francesca," Elena whispered in horror. "No—she was so sweet to him last night! It can't be her—"
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"Not Francesca," Lucian said, already ripping his phone from his pocket to dial the Carlyle security detail. "Francesca has worked for our family doctor for twenty years. Look at the clock—nine-thirty on Thursday morning. What happens at nine-thirty at the Carlyle every Thursday?"
"The pharmacy courier delivers his refrigerated Parkinson’s infusion vials from the compounding lab," Elena cried, sprinting for the office door right on Lucian’s heels.
