My Milf Conqueror System novel Chapter 138

Chapter 138: The Mediterranean Ghost

[Ethan’s POV]

We didn’t linger in the boardroom.

I grabbed the signed debt transfer ledgers, shoved them into my duffel bag, and led Claire back to the private elevator. We left Varga bleeding and unconscious on the ruined carpet of the antechamber, and Kessler still zip-tied in the supply closet.

By the time Isabella’s PMCs managed to restore the building’s security grid and breach the 40th floor, we were already in the back of a cab, speeding toward the Zurich train station.

"Where it all started," Claire muttered, staring blankly at the passing city streets. She had her tablet open, but she wasn’t looking at it. "Isabella and Jake didn’t meet in Zurich. They didn’t meet in Odesa. Where did this war actually begin?"

I leaned my head against the cold window of the cab, my body screaming in agony. The adrenaline was completely gone, leaving me hollowed out. My ribs throbbed with every bump in the road, and my shoulder felt like it was on fire.

"It didn’t start with Isabella," I said softly, closing my eyes. "It started with her grandfather. Richard’s grandfather. The Sterling Grant."

Claire looked over at me, her eyes widening as the memory clicked into place.

"Freshman year," she breathed. "Jake needed the Sterling Foundation’s backing to legitimize Vanguard. He bluffed the old man. He used a provenance log Nia found to convince Sterling he had access to a piece of naval history."

"Nelson’s fleet," I nodded, opening my eyes. "He used a yacht to secure his first real power base. That was the moment Jake Hart stopped being a student and became a player. That was the moment he put himself on Isabella Vane’s radar."

"The yacht," Claire said, her fingers flying across her tablet as she accessed the Vanguard asset logs. "When Jake took over the Sterling Foundation’s assets, he kept the boat. He transferred the deed to a blind trust."

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Port Hercules," Claire said, looking up, a fierce, desperate hope illuminating her exhausted face. "Monaco."

We caught a high-speed rail out of Switzerland, crossing the Alps and descending into the sun-drenched coastline of the French Riviera.

The journey took eight hours. I spent most of it slipping in and out of a feverish sleep, my body desperately trying to repair the damage Varga had inflicted. Every time I woke up, Claire was sitting beside me, her eyes fixed on the window, her hand resting lightly on my uninjured arm. She was terrified of what we were going to find, but she was absolutely resolute.

We arrived in Monaco just as the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in brilliant strokes of orange and bruised purple.

The principality was a playground for the ultra-rich, a glittering jewel carved into the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The air was warm, smelling of expensive perfume, sea salt, and money.

We walked down the winding streets toward Port Hercules, the massive deep-water marina that housed some of the most expensive superyachts on the planet.

"Pier 4," Claire said, checking the slip registry on her phone.

We bypassed the tourists and the paparazzi, moving down the pristine wooden docks. The yachts here were floating palaces, complete with helipads, glass-bottom pools, and armed security details.

But at the very end of Pier 4, sitting quietly in the water, was a sleek, dark-hulled yacht. It didn’t have the ostentatious party lights or the massive crew of the neighboring boats. It was dark, silent, and predatory. The name Vanguard was painted in subtle silver lettering on the stern. "No guards," I noted, my hand instinctively resting on my Glock as we approached the boarding ramp.

"No crew." "He doesn’t need them," Claire whispered. I looked at the ramp, taking a deep, shaky breath. Two years of chasing ghosts, bleeding in the mud, and fighting in the dark had all led to this piece of floating steel.

"Let’s go see what’s left of our friend," I said.

The teak deck of the Vanguard groaned softly under my boots as I stepped off the boarding ramp.

I drew my Glock, keeping the muzzle pointed downward, my finger resting just outside the trigger guard. The yacht was eerily silent. The only sounds were the rhythmic lapping of the Mediterranean against the dark hull and the distant, muffled bass of a party happening on a superyacht three piers over.

Claire stepped onto the deck behind me, her footsteps light and hesitant. She was clutching her reinforced briefcase to her chest like a shield.

"It’s completely dark," Claire whispered, her eyes scanning the tinted glass of the main salon. "Not even emergency lighting."

"Stay behind me," I murmured.

We moved slowly toward the heavy glass sliding doors at the stern. They were unlocked. I pushed them open, the track gliding silently, and we stepped into the main salon.

The air inside was stale, smelling faintly of expensive leather and sea salt. I clicked on my tactical flashlight, sweeping the beam across the room.

It was immaculate. The plush white sofas, the polished mahogany wet bar, the massive flat-screen television—everything was exactly as it had been two years ago when Jake bought it a few months after having bluffed Victoria’s Sterling’s father using a provenance log from "Nelson’s fleet."

Historically, the HMS Vanguard was Lord Horatio Nelson’s famous flagship at the Battle of the Nile. Naming his yacht Vanguard was Jake’s ultimate flex—a constant reminder of the historical bluff that built his empire.

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