Chapter 6 - The Man Behind the EmpireVittorio Russo was found in Switzerland.
Not because Maximilian’s hackers discovered him.
Not because Elena’s contacts betrayed him.
Because Vittorio wanted to be found.
Forty-eight hours after Clara left the hospital, a package arrived.
Inside was a first-class airline ticket.
Boston to Geneva.
Passenger:
Maximilian Alessandro Russo.
No return flight.
Clara examined the ticket from their bedroom.
“He wants you alone.”
“Yes.”
“So naturally you’re planning to go alone.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Maximilian looked at her.
She wore a sling.
The gunshot wound still made certain movements painful.
But she stood straight.
“You are not flying anywhere.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“We are.”
His expression darkened.
“Absolutely not.”
“Maximilian.”
“You were shot four days ago.”
“And your uncle apparently ordered it.”
“Which is exactly why you stay here.”
Clara approached him.
“Your entire life, people have used secrecy against you.”
He said nothing.
“Your father.”
“Lorenzo.”
“Now Vittorio.”
She touched his chest.
“Stop walking into rooms alone.”
The sentence remained between them.
Eventually, Maximilian surrendered.
Not gracefully.
The Russo private jet landed in Geneva the following evening.
Antonio remained in Boston with Clara’s father, who had recovered enough from his stroke to leave long-term care.
Twenty Russo guards surrounded the estate.
Elena traveled with Maximilian and Clara.
The meeting location was not a warehouse.
Not an abandoned church.
Not a criminal safe house.
It was a luxury hotel overlooking Lake Geneva.
Vittorio Russo occupied the penthouse.
He stood near the window when they entered.
Seventy-two years old.
Silver hair.
Perfect black suit.
He looked remarkably similar to Maximilian’s father.
Clara felt her husband tense.
Vittorio smiled.
“My nephew.”
Maximilian remained near the door.
“You tried to murder my wife.”
Vittorio poured wine.
“And yet she lives.”
“Wrong answer.”
Maximilian drew his pistol.
Elena did the same.
Vittorio did not move.
“If I wanted Clara dead, she would be dead.”
Maximilian stepped forward.
“Choose your next words carefully.”
“The sniper was instructed to wound her.”
Clara stared.
“What?”
Vittorio looked at her.
“I needed Maximilian angry enough to come.”
“You shot me to arrange a meeting?”
“Crude.”
Vittorio shrugged.
“Effective.”
Maximilian pressed the pistol against his uncle’s forehead.
“I can make this meeting very short.”
Vittorio smiled.
“Then you will never know who killed your mother.”
Maximilian stopped.
Vittorio moved away from the gun.
“The Consortium exists.”
He poured another glass.
“But I am not its Chairman.”
Elena narrowed her eyes.
“Then who is?”
Vittorio looked at Clara.
“Your father.”
Silence.
Clara laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was absurd.
“My father spent three years on life support.”
“Yes.”
“He was an accountant.”
“Yes.”
“He lived in a two-bedroom apartment.”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
Vittorio approached a desk.
He removed a folder.
Then placed it in front of Clara.
“Your father’s legal name is Thomas Jenkins.”
She stared at him.
“Correct?”
“Yes.”
“His birth name was Thomas Bellandi.”
Clara stopped breathing.
Bellandi.
The family Maximilian’s father had supposedly destroyed.
She opened the folder.
Birth certificate.
Photographs.
Bank documents.
A younger version of her father stood beside men Clara did not recognize.
Then she saw one she did.
Alessandro Russo.
Maximilian’s father.
Clara looked up.
“No.”
Vittorio continued.
“Thomas Bellandi escaped the war.”
“He changed his identity.”
“He disappeared.”
“Years later, he had a daughter.”
“You.”
Clara backed away.
Maximilian immediately moved beside her.
“My father hates criminals.”
Vittorio smiled sadly.
“Your father hates what criminals made him become.”
“Then why would he lead the Consortium?”
“He doesn’t.”
Clara stared.
“You just said—”
“I said the Chairman is your father.”
Vittorio looked at Maximilian.
“Not hers.”
A terrible silence followed.
Maximilian understood first.
His face changed.
“My father is dead.”
Vittorio looked at him.
“Are you certain?”
Clara felt Maximilian’s hand tighten around hers.
Alessandro Russo had supposedly died eighteen years earlier.
Heart attack.
Closed casket.
Private burial.
Vittorio opened another folder.
Inside was a photograph.
Taken six months earlier.
An elderly man stepped from a black limousine in Vienna.
His face was older.
Thinner.
But unmistakable.
Maximilian’s father.
Alessandro Russo.
Alive.
Clara looked toward her husband.
He had become completely motionless.
Elena approached the photograph.
“No.”
Vittorio nodded.
“Yes.”
Elena’s eyes filled with something Clara had never seen.
Hatred.
Pure.
Ancient.
“He killed Mother.”
“Yes.”
“He destroyed the Bellandis.”
“Yes.”
“He let us believe he died.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Freedom.”
Vittorio answered.
“He wanted to build something larger than Boston.”
“The Consortium?”
“Yes.”
Maximilian finally spoke.
“Why target Clara?”
Vittorio looked at him.
“Because she is Bellandi blood.”
Clara felt cold.
“Your father discovered her identity after the kidnapping.”
Vittorio continued.
“He realized the last Bellandi daughter was carrying the Russo heir.”
He almost smiled.
“Do you understand what Antonio represents?”
Nobody answered.
“Two families.”
“Russo.”
“Bellandi.”
“Two bloodlines Alessandro spent decades keeping divided.”
Clara looked at Maximilian.
“Our son.”
“Is a symbol.”
Vittorio nodded.
“A dangerous one.”
Maximilian’s voice became lethal.
“He is a baby.”
“To you.”
Vittorio replied.
“To Alessandro, he is the end of an old order.”
Elena walked toward the window.
“Why tell us?”
“Because Alessandro is preparing to return.”
“To Boston?”
“To everything.”
Vittorio looked toward Maximilian.
“And when he does, he will offer you a choice.”
“What choice?”
“Your empire.”
Vittorio paused.
“Or your family.”
Maximilian did not hesitate.
“My family.”
Vittorio smiled.
“I know.”
“That is why he is going to lose.”
Suddenly, the windows shattered.
Automatic gunfire tore through the penthouse.
Maximilian threw Clara behind the marble bar.
Elena returned fire.
Vittorio dropped.
Blood spread across his shirt.
Clara crawled toward him.
“Vittorio!”
He grabbed her wrist.
“Listen.”
Blood filled his mouth.
“Your father…”
“Thomas?”
“He knows.”
“Knows what?”
“Everything.”
Clara stared.
“Ask him about the night you were born.”
His grip weakened.
“Ask him why your mother died.”
Then Vittorio Russo stopped breathing.
Across the room, Maximilian fired his final round.
The last attacker collapsed.
Silence returned.
Clara remained beside Vittorio’s body.
One sentence repeated inside her head.
May you like
Ask him about the night you were born.
For the first time in her life, Clara realized that Maximilian was not the only person whose family had been built from secrets.
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