Chapter 157 - The Monte Carlo Infiltration
At 9:00 PM, the grand marble facade of the Casino de Monte-Carlo blazed under five thousand golden floodlights, surrounded by a sea of Rolls-Royces, Bugattis, and private security motorcades.
It was the annual European Maritime Sovereignty Gala—the most exclusive private gathering of global shipping oligarchs, sovereign wealth directors, and high-ranking intelligence chiefs on the continent.
A sleek black chauffeur-driven Bentley Mulsanne pulled up to the red carpet outside the private VIP entrance.
The liveried footman pulled open the door.
I stepped out onto the carpet, and the whispers among the waiting paparazzi died instantly.
I wore an exquisite, custom-tailored scarlet silk ballgown from Dior, with an architectural bodice that hugged my waist and a sweeping skirt that flowed behind me like liquid rubies. Around my neck sat the five-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond-and-emerald necklace my father had given me for my twenty-fifth birthday, and my dark hair was swept into an intricate, regal chignon.
Stepping out behind me was Ethan.
He was magnificent. A black velvet dinner jacket, starched white pleated shirt, black silk bowtie, and his hair brushed back with immaculate precision. The dragon tattoo on his neck was completely concealed beneath his high, tailored collar, but the lethal, predatory confidence radiating from his every movement made the casino's armed security guards instinctively straighten their spines.
We walked through the gilded bronze double doors into the Salle Médecin, our fingers lightly laced together.
Across the crowded room, past the crystal chandeliers and the green felt baccarat tables, standing near the private elevator leading to the subterranean vaults, was Lord Charles Sterling.
He was dressed in white-tie formal wear, his chest covered in honorary European chivalric ribbons, leaning on his gold-topped cane, surrounded by four men in tailored Italian suits who did not look like bankers.
Beside him stood Lady Seraphina Sterling—Dominic’s ruthless thirty-four-year-old sister, wearing an icy silver gown, her platinum hair cut in a sharp bob, her cold blue eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
Seraphina’s gaze locked onto me.
Her champagne glass froze halfway to her lips.
"Victoria Vance," Seraphina murmured, her voice carrying through the acoustic perfection of the private salon. "I thought you were hiding in a church cellar in Normandy."
I glided across the parquet floor, stopping three paces from the Sterling circle, my chin held high, my smile dazzling and venomous.
"A Vance never hides, Seraphina," I said, my voice smooth as vintage port. "We simply wait for the rats to gather in one room."
Lord Charles Sterling turned slowly, his weathered face draining of color as his eyes met Ethan’s cold, gray gaze.
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"You have no standing in this principality, Ethan," Sterling whispered, his hand trembling on his cane. "The Prince’s security detail answers to my board."
"Your board ceased to exist forty minutes ago, Charles," Ethan replied, his deep baritone rolling over the gambling tables with quiet, devastating authority.
