Chapter 12 - Fall of the House of Fontaine
By noon the following day, the global empire of Henri Fontaine had ceased to
exist.
Coordinated raids executed by the Italian Carabinieri, the French Gendarmerie,
and Interpol—armed with the decrypted files recovered from the Marseille command
yacht—struck sixty-two properties across France, Switzerland, and Monaco.
Henri Fontaine was arrested at his private villa in Lyon, stripped of his
assets, and formally indicted on charges of state treason, financing maritime
piracy, and orchestrating the car bombing that claimed Isabella Vance’s life.
The French syndicate’s territories along the Mediterranean were absorbed into
the Southern European Council under Cassian Vance’s direct administration.
The blood debt of Rome was paid in full.
Two weeks later, the atmosphere at Villa Vance had transformed completely.
The armed sentries on the terrace were gone, replaced by colorful terracotta
pots of blooming red geraniums and fragrant jasmine. The iron shutters on the
high windows were thrown open, allowing the golden Mediterranean sunshine to
flood the grand dining hall.
Mia sat in the sunlit garden terrace, wearing a pale blue summer dress, her dark
glasses resting on the table beside her.
A world-renowned neuro-ophthalmic surgeon from Zurich, flown in by Cassian three
days prior, had completed a specialized corrective procedure on Mia’s damaged
optic nerves.
She was wearing a light, protective silk eye patch over her left eye, but her
right eye was clear, blinking softly against the bright morning light.
“Sarah?” Mia’s voice was filled with a quiet, breathless wonder.
I sat beside her on the stone bench, holding her small hand. “I’m right here,
sweetheart.”
Mia turned her head toward me. Her right eye focused slowly, adjusting to the
colors, the light, the shapes of the world she hadn't seen in eighteen months.
Her small fingers reached up, gently touching my cheek, my nose, my hair.
A radiant, beautiful smile spread across her face—a smile so pure, so bright, it
seemed to outshine the sun.
“You’re so pretty, Sarah,” Mia whispered, tears of joy slipping down her cheek.
“You look just like the angel Mama told me would come when the storm was over.”
Tears spilled over my lashes, warm and happy. I leaned forward, pressing my
forehead against hers.
“You’re the brave one, Mia,” I smiled. “You’re the bravest girl in the world.”
Across the terrace, Cassian stood leaning against the stone archway, watching
us.
He wore a simple charcoal linen shirt and dark slacks, his arms crossed over his
chest, a soft, tender smile touching his lips—a smile that no man in the
May you like
syndicate had ever seen, a smile that belonged only to the two people sitting in
his garden.
