Chapter 2 - The Name on Page FourteenThe overhead chandelier cast a sharp, brilliant glare across the yellowed parchment as I began to read. My voice was low, but in the acoustic perfection of the private dining room, every syllable echoed like a gunshot.
"Operation Janus," I translated smoothly, seamlessly shifting from the jagged Corsican shorthand into crisp, professional English. "Primary asset turnover confirmed on March 14, 2020. Target: Ethan Carter’s logistics network. Objective: systematic liquidation of secondary shipping routes through the Mediterranean corridor, executed via proxy shell companies registered in the Cayman Islands."
Ethan’s chair scraped loudly against the parquet flooring as he surged to his feet. His face had gone chalk-white, the calculated veneer of the untouchable billionaire instantly replaced by raw, visceral shock. Those shipping routes were classified at the highest level of his conglomerate—information accessible to fewer than five people on earth.
"Go on," Ethan ordered, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp command.
I turned the page, my hands growing colder by the second. The ink on the next page wasn't old; it had been written recently.
"Secondary directive," I continued, my throat tightening. "Elimination of technical liabilities. Reference: Professor Arthur Sterling. Status: Terminated via staged vehicular accident to prevent decryption of core intellectual property."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Professor Arthur Sterling.
My father.
The man the world thought had died of driver fatigue on a snowy mountain pass. The man the police reports dismissed as a tragic victim of bad weather. Here, in black and white, cataloged like an inventory item in an international ledger of corruption, was the proof that he had been murdered.
And the signature at the bottom of the page—written in a clever, looping cipher that only an expert cryptographer could isolate from the surrounding text—wasn't Victor Volkov’s.
It belonged to Marcus Vance, Ethan Carter’s own Chief Operating Officer and closest confidant.
Victor Volkov slammed his glass down, the crystal shattering against the table, spraying amber liquid and shards across the white tablecloth. "Shut her up!" Victor roared, lunging forward.
Before Victor’s hand could even clear his jacket, Ethan was moving with terrifying speed. He vaulted across the corner of the table, his forearm slamming into Victor’s throat and pinning him back into his chair with enough force to crack the wood.
"Don't. Move," Ethan snarled, his gray eyes flashing with lethal fury. He didn't look at Victor; his gaze snapped back to me, wide, disbelieving, and desperate.
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"Who taught you that cipher?" Ethan demanded, his chest heaving.
"My father," I whispered, tears finally breaking free and tracking down my cheeks. "Arthur Sterling was my father. And the man who ordered his murder isn't across the sea, Mr. Carter. He’s sitting right down the hall in your executive boardroom."
