Chapter 6 - The Sharks Circle
By 10:00 AM, the sun had burned through the coastal mist, casting a brilliant, mocking warmth over the streets of Los Angeles.
Julian Vance stepped out of the private elevator bank of the St. Regis into the subterranean parking garage, his knees trembling so violently he had to lean against the concrete pillar to keep from collapsing.
Beside him, Beatrice looked like a ghoul dragged into the daylight. Her five-thousand-dollar makeup was gone, her gray hair tangled and wild, her designer emerald gown rumpled and covered in lint from the floor. Dominic’s men had simply walked out at 8:00 AM, leaving the suite door wide open without saying a single word.
"We need to get to the bank," Beatrice croaked, her voice dry and hoarse. She clutched her crocodile-skin handbag to her chest like a shield. "Arthur’s lawyer... Arthur’s lawyer will fix this. It’s an administrative error. A regulatory freeze can be stayed with an emergency injunction."
"Did you hear what Dad said on the phone?" Julian screamed, his voice pitching into frantic, high-strung hysteria. "The Albanians, Mother! The money we borrowed from Viktor Kosta last month to float the commercial loan! We guaranteed that debt against our personal shares in Vance Enterprises! Those shares are worth zero right now!"
"Shut up!" Beatrice hissed, slapping Julian across his uninjured cheek with a sharp, stinging crack. "Get a hold of yourself! You are a Vance! We do not grovel, and we do not panic in public!"
Julian touched his cheek, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and simmering hatred. "You're still doing it. Even now, when our entire lives are burning down, you're still acting like the queen of the country club!"
"Because perception is reality, you stupid boy!" Beatrice snapped, marching toward their sleek silver Mercedes-Maybach parked in the executive stall. "If the city smells blood, they will tear us apart. If we walk into the Jonathan Club with our heads held high, secure a private bridge loan from our old connections, we can counter-attack Dominic's legal team before the markets close today!"
She reached the driver’s side door and pulled the handle.
It didn't budge.
Julian pulled his key fob from his pocket and pressed the unlock button. Nothing happened. The sleek German sedan remained dead, its digital dash dark.
Instead, a small, laminated repossession notice was affixed to the driver's side window:
*ASSET REPOSSESSED PURSUANT TO FEDERAL DISTRICT COURT ORDER #882-B. PROPERTY OF THE RECEIVERSHIP TRUST.*
"No..." Beatrice gasped, scratching at the glass with her manicured fingernails. "No, this is my personal car! It's leased under my name!"
"Look around, Mrs. Vance," a voice echoed through the concrete cavern of the parking garage.
Three men stepped out from behind a row of parked luxury SUVs.
They weren't Dominic’s men in sharp Italian suits. These men wore heavy leather jackets, dark jeans, and had thick, Slavic accents. The man in the center was short, stocky, with a shaved head and a brutal, jagged scar running through his left eyebrow down to his jawline.
Viktor Kosta.
Julian’s breath hitched in his throat. He took three frantic steps backward, pressing himself flat against the cold concrete wall. "Viktor... Mr. Kosta... we were just coming to see you."
Viktor stopped five feet away, slipping a heavy gold lighter into his pocket. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, like a butcher who had discovered bad meat in his freezer.
"Julian," Viktor said, his voice flat, gravelly, and terrifying. "I woke up this morning to read the *Wall Street Journal*. Very interesting reading. Vance Enterprises bankrupt. Arthur Vance in federal custody for fraud. All corporate accounts seized by the federal government."
"It’s a temporary injunction, Viktor!" Beatrice interjected, stepping between Viktor and her son, trying to use her matriarchal presence to intimidate a man who had survived the Balkan conflicts. "My husband's legal team is already filing an appeal. We have collateral! We have significant personal real estate—"
Viktor looked at Beatrice as if she were an annoying insect buzzing around his ear. Without a word, he signaled with a slight flick of his chin.
The two enforcers beside him moved instantly.
One grabbed Beatrice by the arm, twisting her roughly and pinning her against the hood of the Maybach. Her handbag flew open, scattering gold compacts, credit cards, and lipstick across the dirty asphalt.
"Get your hands off me!" Beatrice shrieked. "Do you know who I am?"
"Yes," Viktor said, stepping close to her face, his cold dark eyes dead as winter stones. "You are the woman who signed personal guarantees on nine million dollars of my syndicate's money. Money that was supposed to be wired back to Zurich by 9:00 AM today."
"We can get it!" Julian cried, his voice trembling so hard his teeth were chattering. "Lily! My wife! Her mother owns an estate in Malibu worth twelve million! Lily has a three-million-dollar condo downtown in her name alone! I'm her legal husband! I can force a liquidation—"
Viktor let out a short, harsh bark of laughter that echoed through the parking garage.
"You really are as stupid as Dominic said you were," Viktor sneered.
Julian froze. His eyes widened in absolute, incomprehensible shock. "What?"
Viktor leaned down, picking up Beatrice's platinum credit card from the asphalt, snapping it cleanly in half between two thick fingers, and tossing the pieces into her open handbag.
"Who do you think authorized my syndicate to loan your family that nine million dollars in the first place, Julian?" Viktor asked, a cruel smile revealing gold-capped teeth. "Who do you think provides the offshore banking routes for every single dollar my organization moves across the Atlantic?"
Julian’s brain short-circuited. The room spun around him. "Dominic..."
"Mr. Moretti owns the ground you walk on, boy," Viktor whispered, grabbing Julian by the collar of his ruined tuxedo shirt and pulling him forward until their noses were inches apart. "He called me forty minutes ago. He told me that my debt with your family is still active. But he gave me very specific instructions on how to collect."
"Please," Julian whimpered, wet tears rolling down his face, soaking into Viktor’s leather sleeve. "Please don't kill me."
"Kill you?" Viktor chuckled, patting Julian’s bruised cheek with heavy, humiliating slaps. "Dead men don't pay debts, Julian. Mr. Moretti wants you alive. He wants you breathing. But he wants you to understand what it feels like to have no home, no money, no family, and nowhere in this entire country to hide."
Viktor let go of his collar. Julian collapsed onto the pavement like a rag doll.
"Take their jewelry," Viktor ordered his men coldly. "Take her rings. Take his watch. Take every cent of cash in her purse. Then throw them onto the street."
"No! Not my rings!" Beatrice wailed as the second enforcer tore the three-carat diamond band from her left ring finger with enough force to strip the skin from her knuckle. "That's an heirloom! That's Vance family property!"
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"Not anymore, Mrs. Vance," Viktor said, turning his back on them and lighting another cigarette as he walked toward the elevators. "Now... it's a down payment."
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