Chapter 12 - THE VIPER OF PORTOFINO
The midnight express train from Genoa rattled along the rugged Italian coastline, its steel wheels screaming against the tracks as we hurtled through pitch-black coastal tunnels toward the exclusive yacht haven of Portofino.
Inside the private VIP compartment, the amber reading lights cast long, dramatic shadows across the polished walnut paneling.
Christian sat across from me, his massive frame unmoving as he cleaned the matte-black slide of his Sig Sauer P226 with a strip of oiled flannel.
“Moretti isn't just an old syndicate boss,” Christian said, his voice dangerously low as he reassembled the pistol with a crisp click. “He’s the architect of the 1998 Genoa purge. He’s the man who ordered my mother’s banishment and my father’s execution.”
“And he knows about Sofia?” I asked, leaning forward on the velvet bench.
“He knows she’s the sole remaining legal heir to the entire Vance-Conti shipping monopoly,” Christian replied, his pale green eyes locking onto mine. “Moretti doesn't want to kill her, Maya. He wants to legally adopt her through a corrupt maritime court in Switzerland, seizing our entire fleet without firing a single shot.”
My chest tightened with a cold, protective fury.
“We won't let him touch her.”
“He won't get the chance,” Christian murmured, sliding the pistol back into his shoulder holster. “Because by the time we dock in Portofino, Moretti’s entire operation will be surrounded by the Italian financial police.”
The train's whistle wailed a long, mournful blast as the locomotive began to decelerate, its brakes hissing against the rails as we pulled into the dimly lit, rain-slicked station of Portofino.
Through the rain-streaked window of the compartment, the iconic crescent-shaped harbor of pastel-colored fisherman’s houses looked like a watercolor painting blurred by tears.
At the end of the platform, standing beneath a massive black umbrella, stood Miller and two local carabinieri captains in dark wool coats.
Christian slid the compartment door open, stepping out onto the wet platform first, his broad shoulders shielding me from the cold Ligurian rain.
“Situation report, Miller,” Christian commanded as we hurried toward the waiting black Alfa Romeo sedan.
“Moretti’s superyacht—*The Leviathan*—is anchored three hundred yards off the public pier,” Miller reported crisply, holding the car door open for us. “He’s hosting a private gala aboard for European magistrates and shipping executives. He expects us to arrive by dawn.”
“We’re not waiting until dawn,” Christian said, sliding into the leather back seat and pulling me in beside him. “Drive straight to the private marina slip.”
Ten minutes later, the sedan screeched to a halt beside a deserted stone quay where a sleek, high-speed patrol rib was idling in the dark water.
We didn't wait for formal introductions.
Christian vaulted into the bow, taking the helm, while Miller and I climbed in behind him.
The patrol boat surged forward into the rainy night, cutting across the dark swells of the Ligurian Sea toward the towering, multi-deck silhouette of The Leviathan—a floating palace of glass, steel, and arrogant wealth glowing like a beacon in the middle of the dark bay.
As we drifted silently against the starboard swim platform of the superyacht, the sound of classical Vivaldi strings drifted down from the upper deck gala, mingling with the sound of champagne laughter and political toasts.
Christian secured the bow line, looked back at me, and offered his hand.
“Ready to crash a billionaire’s party, Maya?” he asked, a fierce, predatory smile touching his lips.
May you like
“Always, Christian,” I said, taking his hand as we stepped onto the metal boarding ramp of the enemy ship.
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