Chapter 42
To draw the Phantom out of the shadows and crush the last breath of the European coalition, Clara and Silas orchestrated a flawless trap in the heart of enemy territory. They leaked fabricated intelligence suggesting that the Vance syndicate was willing to negotiate the release of frozen European assets. The venue was a centuries-old, secluded chateau nestled high in the Swiss Alps, just outside Geneva.
The night of the summit, howling winds whipped blinding snow against the stone walls of the chateau. Inside, the grand ballroom was a vision of opulent tension. Clara descended the grand staircase wearing a breathtaking crimson silk gown, her every step radiating the absolute authority of a woman who had conquered the underworld. Silas walked beside her, his bespoke tuxedo concealing a heavy array of tactical weaponry, his storm-gray eyes tracking every movement in the room.
The ballroom was filled with the remaining European bosses and their heavily armed escorts. The classical music playing from the string quartet did nothing to mask the metallic clicks of hidden weapons being readied. Marco and his elite Vance operatives had already secured the perimeter, quietly disabling the chateau's communication lines.
"They are terrified of you," Silas whispered in Clara's ear as he handed her a flute of champagne. "Half of the men in this room are sweating through their suits."
"They should be," Clara replied smoothly, raising her glass to a trembling Italian underboss. "Is the Phantom here?"
"My men haven't spotted his biometric signature," Silas said, his jaw tightening. "But the tension is too thick. Something is about to break."
As the massive antique grandfather clock in the center of the hall struck midnight, the crystal chandeliers instantly went dark. Plunged into absolute blackness, the ballroom erupted into screaming panic. The sound of shattered glass and panicked shouts echoed off the stone walls.
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Clara did not scream. She dropped her champagne glass, smoothly drawing the suppressed 9mm pistol strapped to her thigh beneath the slit of her gown. She pressed her back firmly against Silas's. Muzzle flashes tore through the darkness like violent lightning, illuminating the horrified faces of the European bosses. Silas and Marco moved with terrifying, synchronized precision, neutralizing any hostile mercenary who dared to draw a weapon in the dark.
When the emergency backup generators finally kicked in, bathing the room in a dull red glow, the ballroom was a scene of utter carnage. But the Phantom was nowhere to be seen. Clara walked to the center of the head table. Resting perfectly on her empty porcelain plate was a single, flawless black rose, accompanied by a typed card: "The real hunt begins now, Clara Vance. Check your own house."
