Chapter 5 - The Lucien Group
"The Lucien Group is a private intelligence and corporate restructuring firm," Mara explained that night as we pored over the contents of the diary in our hotel room. The velvet curtains were drawn tight, and I had chained the door from the inside. "They specialize in making wealthy heirs disappear so their assets can be absorbed by predatory conglomerates. Richard’s father was a founding member."
According to Clara’s journal, she had discovered that the pharmaceutical company her family owned was being used as a front to test highly toxic, unapproved compounds in developing countries. When she threatened to go to the international press, the Lucien Group stepped in. They manufactured a history of severe mental illness for her, paid off the local authorities, and arranged for her child to be given to Richard and Eleanor to ensure the Vane family shares could still be voted on in board meetings.
"So my entire existence was just a rubber stamp for corporate murder," I said, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. I held the silver locket tightly in my palm, the metal edges digging into my skin.
Suddenly, the lights in our hotel room flickered and died.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of the rain against the glass. Mara immediately reached into her purse for the small revolver she had smuggled across the border, but before she could clear the zipper, the heavy wooden door of the hotel room exploded inward with a deafening crash.
Two men in dark tactical gear surged into the room. One of them caught Mara with a heavy forearm to the chest, throwing her against the wall where she collapsed, unconscious.
I scrambled backward toward the balcony, clutching the leather diary to my chest. A third figure stepped through the ruined doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway lights. He didn't wear tactical gear. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his face pale and sharp under the glow of the emergency lights.
May you like
My father. Richard.
"You always were a stubborn little bitch, Avery," he said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. He held a silenced pistol leveled directly at my forehead. "You should have just eaten the cake. It would have been cleaner. Now, give me the journal, or I’ll make sure your death is significantly more painful than a little respiratory failure."
