Chapter 6: The Eye of the Storm

The next two hours were a terrifying, chaotic blur of flashing red lights, shouting paramedics in heavy winter gear, and a turbulent, violent ascent into the dark, snowy Alpine sky.

The elite medical team didn’t waste a single second. They burst through the clinic doors, assessing Leo in seconds. They stabilized him mid-flight as the helicopter shook violently against the gale-force winds. I watched in terrified awe as a flight nurse forced open his spasming airways with high-grade, nebulized epinephrine and seamlessly hooked him up to a portable, state-of-the-art pediatric ventilator.

I sat strapped into a rigid jump seat in the back of the vibrating helicopter, the noise of the rotors deafening even through my noise-canceling headset. I couldn’t hold his hand. I could only watch his chest mechanically rise and fall, praying to any god that would listen, promising everything I had left for his survival.

The pilot flew with night-vision goggles, navigating the treacherous mountain peaks entirely by instruments, fighting the storm for every inch of altitude.

By the time we touched down on the floodlit, snow-dusted roof of the premier university hospital in Zurich, a full pediatric pulmonary team was already waiting on the helipad, their breath pluming in the freezing air.

They rushed Leo’s gurney down the ramp and straight into the intensive care unit. The heavy, sterile double doors swung shut behind them, a nurse holding up a hand to stop me from following.

I was left alone in the quiet, sterile, brightly lit hallway.

I slid down the wall, pulling my knees to my chest. The immediate, terrifying battle for his life was over. The ventilator was doing the work. He was breathing. He was in the best possible hands.

Now, the fallout was about to begin.

It was nearly 2:00 AM in Zurich, which meant it was the exact same time in Milan.

I sat in a green vinyl chair in the waiting wing, holding a styrofoam cup of untouched, lukewarm black coffee. My phone, which had been silent for hours during the flight, suddenly erupted with light and sound.

It was a FaceTime audio call from an unknown international Italian number.

I stared at the screen. I took a deep breath, steadying my racing heart. I answered the call, deliberately placing it on speakerphone and resting the device on my lap.

“Hello,” I said softly.

“Victoria! Victoria, answer me you absolute psycho!” Harper’s voice shrieked through the tiny speaker.

It wasn’t the arrogant, giggling, champagne-soaked voice from the Sotheby’s auction. It was a shrill, hyperventilating wail of absolute, unadulterated panic. The sound of heavy rain and honking cars could be heard in the background.

“Hello, Harper,” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, echoing softly in the quiet hospital corridor.

“What the hell did you do?!” she screamed, sobbing hysterically, her breath catching in her throat. “Hotel security literally intercepted us in the lobby! They wouldn’t even let us go upstairs! They brought our suitcases down in a luggage cart, threw them at our feet, and marched us out the glass doors! The Duke of Lombardy was in the lounge having a nightcap—he saw the whole thing! He laughed at us, Victoria! He pointed and laughed!”

“I’m sure His Grace found the peasant show highly entertaining,” I replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of the terrible coffee.

“It gets worse!” Harper wailed, the sheer panic fracturing her voice. “The auction house sent their private security to the hotel lobby! Because you reported the wire transfer as fraud to the federal authorities, they confiscated the Renaissance painting right out of my hands in front of everyone! They literally snatched it! They threatened to have us arrested by the Carabinieri for grand larceny!”

I pictured it. The two women who thought they were royalty, standing on the wet, filthy pavement in the freezing Italian night, surrounded by their Louis Vuitton luggage, completely and publicly exiled from the world of the elite they so desperately worshipped.