Chapter 8
Valeria stopped dead in her tracks in the middle of the corridor, the hospital linoleum suddenly feeling like thin ice over a frozen lake. Julian stopped a few paces ahead, noticing her silence, and turned around with a questioning look in his eyes.
“Valeria? What is it?”
Valeria didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers, clad in a delicate silver ring, trembled slightly as she tapped the screen to open the encrypted messaging application. The photograph filled her display: the grand arched doorway of her historic brownstone apartment building on 4th Street, captured from a telephoto lens parked inside a dark sedan. Standing right on the front steps, casually smoking a cigarette while looking directly up at her third-floor window, was Tyler.
Beneath the photograph, a text message glowed in stark white lettering: Tell your father to drop the forensic audit by midnight, or the next pictures won’t be of a building.
Julian caught up to her in two strides, his sharp eyes scanning the screen over her shoulder. The older man’s face went completely bloodless, replaced instantly by an expression of pure, parental fury that was far more terrifying than any corporate board room negotiation.
“He’s threatening you,” Julian whispered, his voice dangerously low.
“He’s panicking,” Valeria corrected, forcing her breathing to steady as she locked the phone screen and dropped it back into her pocket. She looked up at her father, her eyes flashing with the exact same stubborn resilience that had made the Sterling name a force to be reckoned with in this city. “Tyler doesn’t have the brains to orchestrate corporate blackmail on his own. He’s a front man. The real architect of this extortion is Harrison Thorne.”
Julian didn’t waste time arguing. He pulled his own encrypted satellite phone from his pocket, dialing a direct seven-digit code with practiced speed.
“Marcus? Get three of our private security contractors down to Valeria’s brownstone on 4th Street immediately,” Julian commanded into the receiver, pacing two steps down the corridor. “Sweep the perimeter. If you find a young man in a designer tracksuit loitering near the entrance, detain him quietly and bring him to my downtown warehouse. Use whatever force is necessary under private property protection clauses.”
He ended the call without waiting for a confirmation, slipping the phone back into his blazer pocket. He turned to his daughter, his hands resting heavily on her shoulders.
“You aren't going back to that apartment tonight, Valeria,” Julian stated flatly. “You’re staying at the family estate in the gated hills. The security detail there is impenetrable.”
“No, Dad,” Valeria replied instantly, stepping back out of his grip with quiet determination. “If I run to the estate, they win. They want to scare us into hiding so we drop the audit. If I go back to my apartment with a security escort, it sends a message that we aren't backing down an inch.”
Julian stared at her, recognizing the stubborn streak she had inherited directly from her late mother. He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his distinguished grey hair.
“You’re just as reckless as your brother, do you know that?” Julian muttered, though a hint of fierce pride flickered in his eyes. “Fine. You take my car, and I’m sending two armed guards to stay inside your building lobby until dawn. But if I hear so much as a whisper of trouble, I am calling Special Prosecutor Vance and having every single one of them picked up under federal anti-terrorism statutes.”
Valeria offered a tight, reassuring smile, adjusting the lapels of her white blazer. “Deal.”
Thirty minutes later, the black town car dropped Valeria off directly in front of her brownstone on 4th Street. The streetlights flickered in the crisp evening air, casting long, dramatic shadows across the historic brick facade. True to his word, Tyler was nowhere to be seen—the presence of two burly private security guards stepping out of the trailing vehicle had evidently cleared the sidewalk rather quickly.
Valeria unlocked the heavy oak front door, stepped inside the quiet marble lobby, and walked straight toward the elevator. She pressed the call button, listening to the soothing mechanical hum of the cables rising from the basement.
As the elevator doors slid open with a soft metallic chime, Valeria stepped inside, reached out to press the button for the third floor, and froze.
May you like
Sitting on the small velvet bench inside the private elevator car was the light grey designer handbag Elena had dropped at the restaurant earlier that afternoon.
***
