The car speeds toward the marina. Toward the water. Toward the end of the line.
CHAPTER 30
THE GILDED CAGE
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:Port Hercules, Monaco -> The SuperyachtGilded Cage
Track:Paint It, Black– Ramin Djawadi (Westworld Orchestral Version)
Sensory:The slap of dark water against the hull, the smell of expensive cognac and betrayal, the cold sweat of a ghost coming back to life.
Mood:Cognitive Dissonance & Patricidal Rage.
The marina is a graveyard of excesses.
Massive white hulls bob gently in the black water, illuminated by the underwater lights that turn the Mediterranean into a glowing turquoise swimming pool. These aren't boats; they are floating nations. Sovereign territories of tax evasion, human trafficking, and silence.
Our car stops at the end of the pier. "That’s it," Alaric says, pointing through the tinted windshield.
At the very end of the dock, dwarfing everything around it, sitsThe Gilded Cage. It is three hundred feet of black steel and tinted glass. It looks like a stealth bomber that decided to float. It doesn't have the sleek, welcoming lines of the other yachts. It is angular, aggressive, and fortress-like. The name is painted in gold leaf on the stern.The Gilded Cage.
I stare at the name. A shiver that has nothing to do with the sea breeze crawls up my spine. "He named it that," I whisper. "Alaric... the name."
"I know," Alaric says grimly. "It’s a mockery. Or a statement of intent."
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. His grip is firm, the newly repaired nerves in his hand responding perfectly. "Are you ready?"
I touch the ceramic knife strapped to my thigh under the red dress. I touch the cold diamonds at my throat. "I'm ready to burn it."
We step out of the car. The wind whips the red silk around my legs. I walk tall, channeling the Queen, the Muse, the Killer. Alaric walks beside me, his tuxedo pristine, his eyes scanning the shadows for snipers. We approach the gangway.
Two guards stand at the bottom. They are not wearing sailor uniforms. They are wearing the same grey tactical gear as Kaiser’s men, but without the discipline. Syndicate muscle. "Private vessel," one of them grunts, stepping forward to block us. "Invitation only."
Alaric doesn't speak. He lifts his hand. From his fingers hangs the platinum key we won from Silas Vane. The serpent sigil catches the light.
The guard freezes. He looks at the key. Then at Alaric. Then at me. "Mr. Vane sent you?"
"Mr. Vane is indisposed," Alaric says smoothly. "He retired early. He sent us to... entertain the Chairman."
The guard hesitates. He scans the key with a handheld device.Beep. Green light."Access Granted: Level 1 Clearance."
The guard steps back, his face pale. The key carries weight. It carries the authority of the inner circle. "The Chairman is in the Observation Lounge. Top deck."
"We know the way," Alaric lies.
We walk up the gangway. My heels ring on the metal.Clack. Clack. Clack.We step onto the deck. It is teak wood, polished to a mirror shine. The yacht is silent. There is no party. No music. Just the hum of the engines and the sound of the wind.
"It’s too quiet," I whisper.
"It’s a summit," Alaric murmurs, guiding me toward the elevator. "Not a celebration. They are here to carve up the empire."
We enter the glass elevator. Alaric swipes the key. We rise. Deck 1. Crew. Deck 2. Guest suites. Deck 3. The Lounge.
The doors slide open.
The Observation Lounge is massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the lights of Monaco. The floor is covered in a Persian rug that probably costs more than my life. In the center of the room, there is a round table. Three men sit there. They are arguing.
