Chapter 2 - THE MONTECARLO CONSPIRACY
The airplane hit a pocket of light turbulence over the Swiss Alps, the cabin shuddering softly, but the baby in my arms didn't even stir. He was completely out, his tiny chest rising and falling in perfect sync with my own heartbeat.
Julian Vance hadn't moved his eyes off my face for five continuous minutes.
“Vance,” he repeated, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register again. “You told me your name is Lia Vance.”
I swallowed hard, feeling the cold sweat returning to my palms. “It’s... it’s a common name in the south.”
“No, it isn't,” Julian said coldly, leaning forward in his leather seat, resting his elbows on his knees so his face was six inches from mine. “Vance is a Scottish-Norman surname localized in two small villages near Avignon. My family line was reduced to three surviving members eight years ago.”
He leaned closer, his light gray eyes piercing straight through my weak ten-year-old defense walls.
“My mother was Colette Vance. She had two children. Myself... and my older sister, Claire.”
My eyes welled with sudden, hot tears that I fought violently to push back.
Claire was my mother’s name. My mother, who had died two years ago in a hospital room in Lyons while my stepfather sat at home drinking gin and calculating the interest on her life insurance policy.
“Your mother had dark hair,” Julian whispered, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached out to touch a strand of my brown hair that had fallen over my forehead. “She had a small heart-shaped freckle right below her left ear collarbone. Just like yours.”
I couldn't hold it back anymore. A single tear slipped down my cheek, dropping onto the baby’s cashmere blanket.
“She died, Uncle Julian,” I choked out, keeping my voice down so the other passengers wouldn't hear. “Mom died two years ago. And grandmother died six months ago.”
Julian’s face went completely, terrifyingly white.
The granite composure he had worn like armor since I stepped through the curtain shattered into a thousand tiny fragments. He pulled his hands back, clutching the armrests of his seat so hard the leather groaned under the pressure.
“Colette... is dead?” he rasped, his eyes filling with an ancient, unbearable grief. “My mother is gone?”
“She kept your picture in her Bible,” I whispered, tears streaming freely down my face now, though I kept my body completely still so I wouldn't disturb the baby. “She talked about you every single night before she went to sleep. She said you went to America to build something big so you could come back and buy the old vineyard in Avignon.”
Julian covered his face with one large hand, his chest heaving silently.
Beside us, the giant security guard, Lev, stared at me with open mouth, his hand dropping completely away from his suit coat.
“Mr. Vance,” Lev whispered nervously. “Sir... should I clear the cabin?”
Julian took a slow, shuddering breath, lowering his hand from his face. His gray eyes were bloodshot, but the cold, lethal intelligence in them had returned tenfold.
“Clear first class,” Julian commanded softly.
Lev didn't hesitate. He stood up, turning toward the cabin.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lev announced in a loud, booming tone that left zero room for argument. “Due to an executive security operational requirement, first class is now closed. Please take your belongings and move into the forward business lounge or premium economy. The purser will credit your corporate accounts with full flight refunds.”
“What?!” the retired sitcom actress shrieked, standing up from 3B. “This is outrage! I am an award-winning actress! You can’t throw me out of first class because some child—”
Lev stepped directly into her path, his massive six-foot-four frame towering over her like a brick wall. He pulled a black leather wallet from his breast pocket, flashed an official metallic shield with gold diplomatic lettering, and leaned down.
“Ma'am,” Lev said quietly. “You have three seconds to take your mimosa and move behind the curtain, or I will have federal marshals board this aircraft at gate arrival to process you for interfering with a federal transport protocol.”
The actress went pale, grabbed her designer handbag, and scurried behind the blue curtain like a frightened rabbit. The senator from Boston didn't even argue; he picked up his briefcase and walked briskly toward the back. Within ninety seconds, the entire first-class cabin was completely empty, save for the chief flight attendant, who quickly drew the heavy privacy dividers closed behind them.
Julian turned his full attention back to me.
“Who are you traveling with, Lia?” he asked softly.
“My sister, Maya,” I said, pointing toward the curtain. “She’s three. She’s sleeping in Seat 12C.”
Julian nodded to Lev, who immediately walked through the curtain and returned thirty seconds later holding a sleeping, warm, curly-haired little girl wrapped in a pink fleece blanket. Lev placed Maya gently into the spacious leather seat of 2B, right next to Julian.
Maya stirred slightly, grumbled, hugged her plush rabbit tighter, and went right back to sleep.
Julian looked at his small niece, his jaw working silently. Then he looked at my scuffed canvas shoes and my old denim jacket.
“Why are you on an international flight to Rome with two hundred and seventy-four euros, Lia?” Julian asked, his voice razor-sharp now. “Where is Richard Moreau?”
Richard Moreau. My stepfather.
The mere sound of his name made my stomach twist into a cold, violent knot.
“He... he was going to sell the vineyard,” I whispered, looking down at my shoes. “Grandmother left the house and the land to Maya and me in her will. But Richard said we were minors, so he had legal guardianship. Four days ago, two men in dark suits came to the house. They were talking to Richard in his office. I was sitting on the floor behind the hall couch cleaning Maya’s shoes.”
Julian leaned in closer, his gray eyes burning like hot phosphorus. “What were they talking about?”
“They were talking about a corporate transfer,” I said, my memory recalling every detail with sharp, photographic clarity. “The men offered Richard three million euros to sign over the land rights of the Avignon estate to a company called Valence Energy Group. Richard said he’d sign it, but then one of the men said... he said the guardianship papers weren't clean because our mother’s death certificate had an open inquiry.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “An open inquiry?”
“Richard got mad,” I continued, my voice shaking. “He told the men not to worry about the children. He said he was going to place Maya and me in an private boarding facility in Switzerland by the end of the month so nobody could ask us questions about Mom’s illness. Then he locked the basement door where Grandmother’s old legal papers were kept.”
I looked up into Julian’s eyes.
“I waited until Richard fell asleep after drinking his gin. I used an old screwdriver to pop the lock on the basement window. I found Grandmother’s secret tin box inside the chimney brick. I took the cash she had hidden, took Maya’s birth certificate, packed our bag, and caught the four o'clock morning train to Paris.”
Julian sat completely still for five seconds.
Then he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a encrypted satellite smartphone, and tapped a twelve-digit speed dial number.
“Marcus,” Julian spoke into the receiver, his voice flat, emotionless, and terrifyingly calm. “I need a full corporate forensic team dispatched to Avignon immediately. Lock down the land registry offices in the Vaucluse department. Issue an emergency asset freeze against Richard Moreau.”
He paused, listening to the voice on the other end.
“No,” Julian cold-smiled, staring at the ceiling of the plane. “Don't touch Moreau yet. Let him think the girls are still missing in France. Track his communications. Find out who at Valence Energy Group authorized a three-million-euro bribe for my family’s land.”
He hung up the phone and looked back at me.
“Lia,” Julian said, reaching out to gently touch my hand. “Do you know what is under the soil of our family vineyard in Avignon?”
I shook my head. “Just old Grenache grapevines and limestone rocks.”
“No,” Julian said softly. “Three months ago, a geological survey discovered one of the largest lithium and thermal water reserves in southern Europe directly beneath our family estate. It is worth roughly four hundred million euros.”
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My jaw dropped.
“Your stepfather didn't just want to get rid of you, Lia,” Julian whispered, his hand squeezing mine tight. “He was helping a global energy cartel steal your inheritance... and he was going to make sure you and Maya were never heard from again.”
