Chapter 6 - THE MEDITERRANEAN MANIFESTO
The salt-laden wind whipped across the teak deck of the Vengeance as we sliced through the dark, churning swells of the Atlantic shelf, leaving the burning skeletal ruins of Star Island far behind in the western horizon.
Inside the cabin, the mahogany panels gleamed under soft amber recessed lighting.
Grandma Isabella sat in a high-backed leather armchair near the bow navigation desk, her withered hands steadily tracing the frayed gold embossing of the 1998 Genoa baptismal registry.
Sofia was curled up asleep on the settee opposite her, her breathing deep and rhythmic, the blue LED on her sensory glasses pulsing softly like a tiny, protective star against the dark upholstery.
I stood near the galley counter, pouring two cups of steaming black coffee from the brass percolator.
My service apron was gone, replaced by a simple charcoal cashmere sweater Christian had fetched from his private stateroom locker.
The heavy oak cabin door slid open.
Christian stepped inside, shaking the sea spray from his broad shoulders before shucking off his damp linen jacket to reveal a fitted black tactical shirt that clung to his muscular frame.
He walked over to the navigation desk, resting his large, scarred hands on the polished wood beside Isabella’s chair.
“The federal blockade is three miles behind us,” Christian said quietly, his voice low so as not to wake the sleeping child. “Coast Guard dispatch is refusing to answer Richard’s encrypted frequency. They think he went down with the fuel terminal.”
Isabella looked up, her faded blue eyes sharp and unyielding.
“Richard was never just a logistics officer, Christian,” she said, her voice dry as parchment. “Your father didn't just banish me to Europe twenty-five years ago. He liquidated our family’s entire stake in the Black Sea arms pipelines and handed the operational keys directly to Richard’s father.”
Christian’s jaw tightened.
“The Black Sea syndicate was dismantled in 2010.”
“That’s what your father wanted you to believe,” Isabella retorted, sliding a folded, water-damaged telemetry sheet across the chart table. “Look at the shipping manifests from the Port of Odessa last month. The cargo isn't grain or industrial machinery. It’s enriched uranium shielding plates and tactical guidance microchips.”
I carried the two cups of coffee over, setting one beside Christian and the other on Isabella’s desk before stepping back to maintain my discreet distance.
Christian didn't touch his cup.
Instead, his pale green eyes scanned the columns of coded serial numbers on the telemetry sheet.
“These aren't commercial shipping codes,” Christian murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “These are military-grade defense allocations routed through shell corporations in the Cayman Islands.”
“Managed by Adriana Bellini’s father,” Isabella added grimly. “Their wedding tonight wasn't just a social merger between two Miami families. It was the final step in a hostile corporate takeover of every deep-water port from here to the Strait of Gibraltar.”
Christian looked up, his gaze locking onto mine across the small cabin.
“Maya.”
“Yes, Mr. Vance?”
“When you were cleaning the executive boardrooms on Star Island last month, did you ever service Richard’s private briefcase?”
I held his gaze, remembering the terrifying hours I had spent scrubbing the mahogany floors while powerful men whispered behind closed doors.
“Once,” I said clearly. “Three weeks ago. Richard left his leather portfolio on the terrace lounge table while he took a satellite call.”
Christian stepped closer, his boots silent on the plush carpet.
“Did you see anything inside?”
“A secondary ledger,” I replied, my memory snapping back into sharp focus. “Handwritten in red ink. It listed twenty-four silent partners across European banking sectors. And... a specific set of GPS coordinates off the coast of Marseille.”
Isabella slammed her hand softly against the desk.
“The sunken dry dock,” the elderly matriarch whispered. “That’s where they’re storing the unregistered submarine hulls.”
Christian turned his face toward the darkened window, watching the endless black swells of the open ocean crash against the vessel’s armored bow.
“Richard thinks he won because he burned my Miami terminal,” Christian said, a cold, dangerous smile touching his lips. “He has no idea that the real inventory was never on American soil.”
He turned back to me, his green eyes burning with absolute resolve.
May you like
“Maya, pack your bags for the French Riviera. We’re going to Marseille.”
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