Chapter 10 - The Patriarch’s Trap
Victor stared at me, his hawklike eyes darting between my face and the little girl peeking out from beneath my coat. For a brief second, a flicker of genuine shock crossed his aged features.
Then, slowly, the chilling smile returned to his mouth.
“A mother?” Victor laughed softly, a dry, grating sound that echoed against the stone pillars of the chalet. “My dear girl, you are a diner waitress who smelled of bleach and fried eggs forty-eight hours ago. You have no legal identity in this country, no documentation recognized by the Swiss courts, and zero leverage against a Caruso.”
He raised his cane, tapping it twice sharply against the marble floor.
Instantly, the heavy oak doors behind Victor swung fully open, and six armed guards stepped out from the interior hallway, their rifles raised and pointed directly at our chests.
“You walked straight into my house, Damian,” Victor sneered, his voice dripping with triumphant arrogance. “And you brought the girl right back to me. Now, drop your weapons, or the snow on this courtyard will turn very red, very quickly.”
Damian didn't flinch. He didn't even reach for his holster. Instead, a cold, slow smirk spread across his face—a look of absolute confidence that made Victor’s smile falter once more.
“You think those men are loyal to you, Uncle?” Damian asked quietly.
Before Victor could answer, the security guards behind him didn't lower their weapons—they suddenly pivoted, swinging the barrels of their rifles around to point straight at Victor’s head.
Victor gasped, stumbling backward against the marble pillar in sheer disbelief. “What... what is the meaning of this? I pay your salaries!”
“You paid them in Swiss francs,” the lead guard said smoothly, pulling a cryptographic keycard from his pocket and tossing it onto the floor at Victor’s feet. “Mr. Caruso paid them in corporate equity and double their retirement funds three hours ago while we were flying over the Atlantic.”
Victor stared down at the keycard, his face draining of all color as the terrifying realization washed over him. He was completely, utterly isolated.
Damian stepped forward, towering over his uncle, his shadow falling across the old man like a shroud.
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“Your empire is gone, Victor,” Damian said, his voice ringing with absolute finality. “Your assets are frozen, your guards belong to me, and you are going to spend the rest of your miserable life in a cell where no one will ever hear your name again.”
Before Victor could muster a single word of defense, Damian reached out, grabbed his uncle by the lapels of his expensive wool coat, and hauled him across the threshold into the cold Swiss air.
