Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at the Penthouse
The rain had turned into a full-scale thunderstorm by the time our convoy arrived at the Vane Penthouse overlooking the Danube. The street below was lined with flashing blue lights as federal tactical units surrounded the building.
Beatrice and her father had refused to surrender, holding three palace staff members hostage on the top floor while their financial algorithms desperately tried to clear the frozen Swiss blockades.
I didn't stay in the van. I walked through the police barricades, dressed in my mother's lavender dress, the sapphire pendant gleaming against my skin under the glare of the searchlights.
"Princess Anastasia, this is a live fire zone," the police commander warned, trying to block my path.
"That is my family's house they are occupying, Commander," I said, my voice carrying a resonance that made him step back. "And those are my mother's killers inside. I am going up."
Julian and Vincent followed me into the private express elevator, our weapons drawn, our faces set in stone.
When the elevator doors opened into the penthouse living room, the scene was one of absolute chaos. Papers were scattered across the Persian rugs, computer monitors were flashing red with deletion sequences, and Baron Maximillian Vane—a frail, terrified old man—was shouting into a satellite phone.
Beatrice stood near the glass balcony doors, holding a compact chrome revolver. Her hair was wild, her elegant emerald dress torn at the hem. When she saw me step into the room, her eyes dilated with a manic, feral rage.
"You!" she screamed, pointing the gun directly at my face. "You ruined everything! We had the succession locked down! We had the banks, the territory, the crown! You're nothing but a servant girl! You belong in the dirt!"
"I belong in this house, Beatrice," I said, walking toward her, completely ignoring the weapon in her hand. Vincent moved to flank her, but I raised my hand, stopping him. "You stole twenty years of my life. You killed my mother with grief. Look at me. Do I look like a servant to you?"
"I’ll kill you," she sobbed, her finger tightening on the trigger. "I’ll finish what we started in Vienna."
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"You won't," Adrian's voice spoke from behind her. He stepped out from the terrace, holding a folder containing the documents we had just retrieved from the vault. "The federal marshals have already seized the Cayman accounts, Beatrice. Father’s signature on the 2006 forgery has been verified. It’s over. Put the gun down before you add a treason charge to your ledger."
Beatrice looked at her brother, then at the police officers pouring through the elevator doors behind me. The chrome revolver dropped from her trembling fingers, clattering loudly against the glass table. She sank to her knees, weeping bitterly as the cuffs were slapped onto her wrists.
