Chapter 42 Chapter 42
He just picked me up and walked out of the room straight into my room and got me into bed. He got in with me and wrapped his arms around me.
When I woke up, the first that I felt was the discomfort between my legs, then my waist and back. I sat up slowly. What did I allow to happen last night?. Shit, I needed to go to the bank today.
The door opened and he walked in dressed in a black suit; he looked hot. Wait, what was I thinking? No, Nikolai wasn’t hot. Well, he was. What the hell was wrong with me? Did having sex screw with my mind?
“See something you like?” he asked, and I did something I had never done; I rolled my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself."
He placed a bottle of water on the nightstand along with a small cup with two medicines and a tube of ointment and sat down on the bed beside me, leaning in close.
“Drink this. Why don't you go shower so I can apply the medicine?" he said, his hands cupping my chin. He leaned in and kissed me.
“Are you still sore?” he asked.
“No, I'm fine.”
“Okay, be careful on the road today," he said, and I looked at him.
“You’re not going to be all soft and sweet, are you?” I asked.
“Only when I'm fucking you," he said before standing up and walking out.
I hurried through a shower and breakfast. I spent two hours with Ares, running some laps and having a workout session in the gym.
When I got downstairs, I called Wesley in. “Madam?”
“Wesley, I need a wig, preferably long, black, and straight, and also a contact lens. Blue or green; also, we’ll be visiting the bank."
"Okay, Madam, I'll have that prepared for you," he said, heading out.
Around nine, Wesley came in with the bag, and I headed up to my room and got dressed. I wore a pair of jeans and a blouse. I wore the wig and stared at myself in the mirror. I looked completely different. After I put the contact lens in, I was a whole different person.
I grabbed my original birth certificate and made sure I had all of my original documents before I left. On the way to the bank, I was nervous. When I walked in, I walked straight over to the desk. The woman sitting there looked up at me.
"Yes, can I assist you with something?” she asked, and I smiled.
“Yes, I am here to open my private vault."
“Do you have a key?” she asked with a condescending tone. I pulled the key out and waved it at her, and her eyes went wide.
“Umm, please. Kindly have a seat; I'll get the manager for you," she said, hurriedly standing up and rushing off. I took a seat and waited. A few seconds later an older man was walking with speed towards us.
He stopped in front of me, smiling. “Good morning, Ms…," he said, waiting for me to introduce myself.
Ms. De Luca," I said with a smile.
"Welcome, Ms. De Luca. I am Mr. Blackwell. I have been expecting you. Can I kindly see your identification?" He asked, and I pulled my ID card out and handed it to him. He checked it over and handed it over to me with a smile.
“Please follow me this way," he said. I stood up and followed him; Wesley was behind me. He led me to the back all the way to the vaults.
He led me over to the far wall and stepped aside. “I’ll be right out here, Ms.," he said. I inserted the key, and I could hear the locks turning. It didn't just click; it gave a deep, hydraulic sigh as it gave way. The air in the vault was dead and heavy, smelling like metal and old, stagnant history. I stepped inside, and the dim overhead light hit the contents, making my vision swim. What the hell.
Stacked against the back wall, from floor to ceiling, were ten-ounce gold bars. I walked over and picked up one; I saw they were stamped with the Swiss refinery mark and the Valerius Hawk. There were hundreds of them, glowing with that dull, heavy yellow light that only real gold has. It wasn't just money; it was a wall of solid, unshakeable power that Alistair had been walking past every day for twenty-one years, never knowing it was right beneath his feet.
I turned and almost fell to the floor; on a velvet-lined shelf sat three heavy leather pouches. I pulled the drawstring on one, and a literal cascade of raw, uncut diamonds spilled into my palm. They weren't set in rings or necklaces; they were just stones clear, jagged, and worth more than most of the skyscrapers in this city. There were enough of them to fund a private army or buy a whole new identity anywhere in the world. "Jesus," I muttered.
There was a stack of neat, brick-sized bundles; it was cold, hard cash. It looked like millions. It wasn't just U.S. dollars; there were stacks of high-denomination Swiss Francs and Euros. It was the disappeared money. My parents had tucked it away so that if the world ever turned on us, we could buy our way out of any corner. I ran my thumb over the edge of a stack; the paper was crisp and never circulated.
Beside the gold were the things that made my throat tighten.
There were three heavy, solid gold Patek Philippes, each one engraved with a different generation of Valerius men. There was a heavy necklace and matching earrings of deep, midnight-blue sapphires that belonged to my mother. They weren't the Imperial Emeralds, but they were the pieces she wore to the dinners Alistair was never invited to. There was a massive, leather-bound book with a silver lock. Inside the front cover, my father had written the names and birth dates of every Valerius for a hundred years. My name was the last one, written in his bold, steady hand.
Tucked under a stack of gold bars was a waterproof folder where the private titles were. One was a private island: a deed for a 500-acre island in the Seychelles, completely off the grid. The second was an art collection: ownership papers for a stash of paintings, Picassos, Monets, and Renoirs that were currently missing from the global market. They were stored in a climate-controlled facility in Geneva, all in my name.
I stood there in the center of the vault, surrounded by more wealth than Alistair Rhodes had made in his entire miserable career. He thought he was a titan because he’d stolen my father’s desk and his title. But standing here, looking at the gold and the diamonds, I realized he was just a beggar playing dress-up.