Chapter 20 - The Obsidian Seal
The private villa we had rented on the secluded island of Giudecca was completely quiet when we returned at two in the morning.
The celebrations at the palazzo had lasted for hours, with champagne toasts from ambassadors and heartfelt congratulations from peers across the globe. My ring caught the moonlight flooding through the arched stone windows of the villa's master salon, sparkling with cold, brilliant fire.
Adrian poured two glasses of chilled Amarone, handing one to me as I leaned against the stone balustrade of the terrace.
"To the future Mrs. Cole," he toasted softly, clinking his glass against mine.
"To building an empire that no one can tear down," I smiled, taking a sip, leaning back against his chest as he wrapped his arm securely around me.
A discreet knock sounded at the heavy oak doors of the salon.
Adrian’s butler, an impeccably professional Swiss man named Laurent, stepped into the room with an apologetic bow.
"Pardon the intrusion, Signor Cole, Signora Avery."
Adrian raised an eyebrow, not letting go of me. "What is it, Laurent? It's past two."
"A diplomatic courier arrived by private water taxi ten minutes ago from Zurich," Laurent said, his voice strangely tight. "He insisted on delivering this directly into your hands. He claimed it was marked with the highest level of personal security."
Laurent held out a silver tray. Resting on it was a thick, matte-black envelope.
It bore no postage stamps, no return address, and no formal courier seals.
Instead, stamped into the center of the heavy black paper was a single, raised wax seal in deep obsidian. Pressed into the wax was an intricate, sharp emblem: a twin-headed serpent wrapped around a broken architect’s compass.
At the sight of the seal, the warmth in Adrian’s frame vanished entirely.
His muscles went rigid against mine. The glass of wine in his hand tilted slightly, nearly spilling onto the stone terrace. I had seen Adrian face down hostile takeovers, criminal investigations, and armed saboteurs without flinching, but looking at that wax seal, his skin paled to an ash-gray hue.
"Adrian?" I asked, looking up at him, sudden alarm tightening my throat. "What is that?"
Adrian didn't answer immediately. He set his wine glass down on the stone ledge with a sharp, trembling clink, then stepped forward and took the black envelope from the silver tray.
"Laurent. Secure the perimeter of the villa immediately. No one leaves or enters the island," Adrian commanded in a harsh, clipped whisper that sent an icy shiver down my spine.
"At once, sir," the butler bowed and vanished into the corridor, shutting the heavy oak doors behind him.
I walked over to Adrian. "Adrian, you're terrifying me. Who is that from?"
Adrian broke the black wax seal with a thumb that visibly trembled. He pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment paper.
Typed across the center in crisp, old-fashioned serif font were only two sentences:
*The girl’s father did not drown by accident in Lake Michigan twenty years ago, Adrian. You took her into your bed to atone for your father’s sin, but the Avery debt has not been paid. We are coming to collect.*
Tucked inside the parchment, sliding out onto the marble floor with a sharp, metallic ring, was a physical object.
I looked down at the floor, my breath freezing in my lungs.
It was an antique silver compass—the exact drafting compass my father had carried with him on the day his boat mysteriously capsized two decades ago.
Before I could speak, the chandelier above us flickered once, twice, and died.
May you like
Every light across the villa and the private island cut out simultaneously, plunging the grand salon into pitch-black darkness. Outside, through the arched terrace windows, the distant hum of a high-speed boat engine cut across the black waters of the lagoon, speeding directly toward our private dock.
And in the suffocating silence of the dark room, Adrian’s personal satellite phone began to ring.
