 
THE THRONE OF OLYMPUS

By

Peter Jessop
Part Two

"Balance of Power"

COPYRIGHT 2011/2014 PETER JESSOP

Smashwords Edition

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_The Throne of Olympus_ is a modern-day reworking of the Greek mythological tales of Zeus and his battle against the Titans. The protagonists in this passion-fuelled saga are members of two rival, international banking dynasties - the Villon Family in Europe and the Ravenscroft Family in the U.S.A. These families began to amass their fortunes during the reign of Elizabeth I and, over the ensuing centuries, their vast power influenced kings, presidents and dictators, shaping world history in the process. In the early 1900s, another distinguished family would become a key player in the story about to unfold - the Zhukovsky Family in St. Petersburg.

## CHAPTER 1

"The Fall of the Titans"

" _Coveting the throne and the power of the Titans, Zeus sought to bring about the demise of Kronos. But Kronos would not succumb as easily as his father."_

(From the myths of ancient Greece)

Harrington Memorial Park, Hamptons

Henry Ravenscroft is laid to rest in the family mausoleum. And it is no mere priest officiating but a cardinal, and the pallbearers are all senior masons, suitably attired in their ritual garb. The Ravenscroft mausoleum is located at the exclusive Harrington Memorial Park.

The structure is a grand pyramid design, about the size of a small house, with Masonic and Illumnati symbolism engraved all over it and the name Ravenscroft chiselled deeply above the entrance. The tomb is just one of many situated in the park, each one just as imposing as the other, all with a surname upon them as if they were gods, kings or pharaohs buried within the stone walls.

As always seems to be the case at funerals, the day was cold, dark and damp and an icy wind chilled the mourners.

Zane sits with Sophia, his aunt Margaret and Rosemary and his uncle, Julius, in silent solitude by the entrance. The other mourners, and there are many, stand around in a semi circle as Henry's casket is carried passed them and into the tomb where his remains shall spend eternity.

"Come to his assistance, ye Saints of God; come forth to meet him, ye Angels of the Lord: receiving his soul, offering it in the sight of the Most High." Cardinal Devonshire's litany for the faithfully departed cracks the silence like a whip. "May Christ receive thee, who hath called thee; and may the Angels conduct thee to Abraham's bosom. Receiving his soul, offering it in the sight of the Most High, eternal rest give unto him, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon him. Lord have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy on us. Our Father...And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, eternal rest grant him, O Lord. From the gates of hell deliver his soul, O Lord and hear my prayer, and let my supplication come unto thee. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, we commend to thee, O Lord, the soul of thy servant Henry George Ulysses Ravenscroft, that, being dead to the world, he may live to thee; and whatever sins he hath committed through frailty, do thou, in thy most merciful goodness, forgive through Christ, our Lord. Amen."

Zane barely hears the words. The last few days have been a blur with everything that had to be handled; the retrieval of the body, the funeral arrangements, the attending of the secret Freemason funeral ritual at the Washington Lodge two nights ago, where the Grand Master called out the role of the dead. Then there was the other ceremony, the more secretive one. Zane could still taste the bitter flavour of the sacrament in his mouth.

The Temple Of Ages, Alexandria Virginia, two days ago

Zane once again found himself kneeling in the centre of the darken torch lit room, the ceiling covered in stars and the symbols of the Illumnati all over the walls including the all seeing eye nestled amongst the Egyptian and Sumerian hieroglyphs – ancient prayers and magical incantations to the gods of old and the antediluvian kings of the mythical lost continent of Atlantis; supplications about the Thirteen Heavens of Atlantis - the Thirteen Heavens of Enlightenment and the Thirteen Kings. Sacred words lost to the world but still known to a few.

_Myth, legend and magic all rolled up in one_ , Zane thinks sombrely, _and who really knows the truth_. The last time he stood here was after he became a 33rd degree Mason, where he swore an oath to the Illumnati and 'The Work of Ages', and now he was back to swear an even greater oath and to take on a more prominent role.

_Every great person first learned how to obey, whom to obey, and when to obey_ ; these words were the maxim at the heart of the Illumnati.

The Illumnati rarely met in full, in reality it was more a loose collation of powerful people working towards the grand design of the great architect, who from time to time would cross swords, but never to the detriment of 'The Work of Ages'; although the war between the Villons and the Ravenscrofts have altered the rules.

Zane didn't want to be here, he has his father's funeral in a couple of days and there was still a lot to organise. But tradition dictated that when the head of one of the thirteen Illumnati families passed away, that the vacancy was filled by the successor as soon as possible; the sacred number must never be broken, the chain must always be whole.

_Suppositious nonsense_ \- _or not_ , Zane wonders. Thirteen has always been the sacred number of the secretive; the origin of this magical number dating far back before the time of Christ and his twelve apostles. The twelve tribes from Exodus 13, the Council of Thirteen, in ancient Egypt there are 13 steps on the path to eternity; Friday the Thirteenth - the date the Templar Knights were persecuted. A number we're told is unlucky, so much so that many hotels and streets do not even have this number, they go from 12 to 14; in religion it is considered the number of rebellion due to its first appearance in Genesis XIV.4: "Twelve years they served Chedorlaomer, and in the thirteenth year they rebelled." Then there are the numbers recommended by religions as being good and sacred, such as 7,9,12 and 10. They say that these are the numbers we should abide to, the Ten Commandments, 7 days of the week, 12 months of the year and St. Paul enumerates the 9 fruits of the spirit.

And yet this number considered bad luck is so tightly entwined in the history of great empires and countries, like America, which has a close association with this number. The American flag has 13 horizontal stripes 6 white and 7 red. The country also shows its association with this number in the Great Seal, which has 13 stars, 13 arrows, 13 berries, 13 stripes and 13 leaves, as well as two 13 letter phrases. The most important one associated with this number was that there were originally 13 colonies.

These are not coincidences.

Zane has been taught that 13 is not an unlucky number. The hidden doctrine of the Illumnati is filled with it. It is the beginning and the end, the Alpha and Omega of everything, it is the number of death and rebirth, and reincarnation has 13 letters in it. It is the number of origin; it is the complete number of the universe and it is the true sign of secret and sacred knowledge. To the Illumnati it is the number for completion and perfection, the true number of God; the universal All Seeing, All Knowing.

Whether Zane believes in it or not, he knows that their whole existence depends on the belief in such occult knowledge. For without such traditions or dark gods to worship, when all else is stripped away, then what reason do the 13 families have to exist or strive for.

Zane will never voice such doubts openly. Better to leave well enough alone.

And yet 13 is the Devil's number.

The twelve hooded and robed figures stood silently in front of Zane, each one representing the head of one of the families of the sacred bloodlines, normally there would be thirteen, but that spot stood vacant with the death of Henry Ravenscroft. Zane was here to take up that mantle.

"Do you swear to uphold the divine right of the thirteen bloodlines as head of one of these most sacred and holy pedigrees?" The bombastic voice of one of the hooded figures echoes through the chamber like a preacher giving a sermon to his followers.

Zane silently wonders if the voice belongs to Christophe Villon, who was present, but try as he might, Zane couldn't place this voice, even though he knew the name of every man in this room.

"I do," Zane answers.

"Do you swear to pursue 'The Work of Ages' as ruler of this bloodline?" the hidden voice continues.

"I do."

"And do you swear by the blood of all your ancestors that have come before you to uphold until death the practices, rituals and goals of the illuminated ones?"

Zane hesitates.

A deafening silence fills the chamber for several long drawn out seconds.

Finally he answers in obedience. "I do."

"And do you agree," the voice goes on, "that with the breaking of these vows you forfeit the right to rule as king of the House of Ravenscroft?"

Zane was never into these ceremonies as much as his father was, but he knew that they were an intricate part of the history of the thirteen families, and therefore had to be upheld and performed, no matter how silly they may seem at a casual glance. They gave a sense of purpose, belonging and cohesion to the goal they were striving for. But there was an underlining threat behind this last question and Zane wasn't about to take it lightly, after all it wasn't unheard of for a head of one of the families being removed for disobedience – Alfred Walker being the most notorious back in 1910.

"I do," Zane replies loud and clear.

"Then partake from the blood of the sacrifice for the thirteen and replenish your thirst for power so that you may take your rightful place amongst the Olympians."

Zane is handed a golden chalice with three skulls embossed upon it, each one with red rubies for eyes. It is an ancient relic dating back centuries, reputed to have been used at the first meeting of the Illumnati. Within the cup is a dark reddish liquid, suppose to be the actual blood of a human sacrifice. But that was just myth, Zane tries to assure himself, as he swirls the liquid around the interior of the cup. And yet Zane knew full well the many satanic rituals and practices that went on amongst the powers that be, sick and perverted, many were nothing more than elaborate make believe and dress up, rituals whose origin and original intent were long forgotten or had been corrupted; but then there was the flipside, the deviant, dark, evil and sinister rituals that involved real sacrifice, blood magic, and sexual abuse. Zane has always managed to steer away from such practices; he has no interest in them, although he knew many who did, including members of his own family. The occult ran deeply through the ruling elite of the world and there were many foot soldiers and minions to do their bidding, having been recruited willingly and unwillingly through the many different secret societies and funding of certain institutions. The elite have been at this game for a long time.

Zane contemplates all this in a matter of moments before slowly raising the cup to his lips and drinking deeply of its contents. He instantly feels the bitter tasting wine as it flows down his gullet; and given the nasty, almost coppery taste to it, Zane can't help but wonder whether it really is blood.

Whatever the case may be he was now even more wedded to the Illumnati and 'The Work of Ages'. As he drinks, the twelve gathered began uttering in unison the 'Prayer of the Divine'... " _An_ God of heaven – hear our prayer of the divine; _Ninhursay_ – progenitor of the gods – hear our prayer of the divine; _Enlil_ – father of the gods – king of heaven and earth – hear our prayer of the divine; _Enki_ – lord of the abyss, semen and wisdom – creator and fertility – hear our prayer of the divine; _Inanna_ – goddess of love and war – hear our prayer of the divine; _Utu_ – god of the sun and justice – hear our prayer of the divine; _Nanna_ – goddess of the moon – hear our prayer of the divine; _Ninlil_ – bride of the gods – hear our prayer of the divine; we who are worthy of your favour offer up this prayer of the divine in holy worship of your glory in life and death – amen."

Zane feels a little light headed as the ancient names of the pantheon of the Sumerian gods are rattled off one after the other. It is all he can do to stay on his feet. The wine must have been even stronger than it tasted, he tells himself.

With the completion of the sacrament and the prayer Zane rises up and has the hooded cloak, recently worn by his father, placed over him. Instantly Zane feels the weight upon his shoulders, not just of the robe but all that it represents and stands for, and for the first time Zane realises the monumental task bestowed before him and wonders if he is truly up to the challenge. And as his head clears he once more feels those cold fingers of fear running up the nape of his neck.

Harrington Memorial Park, the Hamptons

Those familiar fingers of fear continue to pervade the back of Zane's neck as he sits before the tomb of his ancestors. He quickly squashes them, pushing them back down into the pit where they belong; silently telling himself _that fear of failure is the father of failure_. Zane has already dealt with many burdens in his young life and he will cope with this one that has been laid before his feet - he has to; he had no other choice as the alternative was unthinkable. But the hardest task above all is keeping quiet about the defiling of his father's body. Zane hadn't even told his mother about Henry's missing heart. In fact he hasn't spoken to anyone in the family about it.

While Zane ponders this his eyes come to rest upon the face of Christophe Villon, who stands amongst the other mourners. It was all he could do to control himself from getting up and smashing in that smug looking face. He has no actual physical proof that Christophe was behind the death of his father, but he didn't need it, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this decrepit individual, the father of the woman he loves, was responsible for the murder of Henry Ravenscroft. But Zane also knew that he has to tread very carefully and keep his cards close to the chest. The balance of power was delicately poised now and the next move in the great game was crucial.

Zane then notices Christophe looking at his mother, a shrewd, cunning and almost lewd stare. He turns to his mother and places his hand upon her black lace gloved hand offering support. Throughout this whole sorry business his mother has retained an air of aristocratic dignity; in fact she has controlled her emotions remarkably well. Zane knew that she was torn up inside, heartbroken at the loss of her husband, and yet she refused to mourn openly. In fact it has only been his aunties who have shown their emotions publically, both Rosemary and Margaret have taken the demise of their brother to heart.

Even Julius was shattered. Zane's uncle was showing great melancholy over the death, so much so that Zane has witnessed him physically shaking on several occasions. Zane tried to talk to him about his father's death and who may have been behind it; after all someone had to give away the details of his father's trip to the enemy, and Julius was in a much better position of who that might have been in the company, his uncle knew the personnel far better than Zane; but it was no good, Julius was just not coping well with the situation.

As far as Zane was concerned, the only person he could count on at the moment was himself.

He must be cautious.

Sophia felt Christophe's eyes upon her, she could almost feel his smugness as she sat watching the casket containing her late husband's remains enter the Ravenscroft mausoleum. But Sophia wasn't about to give her former lover the pleasure of seeing her in distraught. She was a Froberger, a royal line that went back centuries, and now she called upon that heritage of stalwartness and regal pedigree that has stood her family in good stead during past times of hardship and travail. In fact the moment she received the devastating news of Henry's death, she locked herself away in the bedroom for several hours and cried her eyes out, alone with no comfort from anyone. But during that time a door inside of her slammed shut. When she emerged from the room she had locked away her emotions of grief, placing them behind an impregnable shield.

There was too much to lose.

Sophia put on a face of dignity and poise. She knew that the fate of her family was at stake and that there was no time to wallow away in the pit of despair. Her beloved Henry had been assassinated and that if there was to be a next target it would be her son and she wasn't about to allow that to happen.

At the thought of her son she feels his hand upon her's, strong, unyielding; she squeezes it, reassuring herself that Zane was more than a match for her former lover that she has long since come to despised. Blood had been spilt, and the world acted upon the notion that one good kick deserved another, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. Sophia Ravenscroft-Froberger was no longer the frightened and insecure little princess she had once been; she was now the queen mother of the House of Ravenscroft and all her energies now would be dedicated to preserving that house and ensuring that her son descended the throne, no matter what the cost. She vows to the creator that the Ravenscrofts will not be destroyed; she will fight to the end until there was no more life within her, and then from beyond the grave if need be.

Outwardly Christophe Villon mourns the loss of a fellow globalist, but inwardly he smiles, he laughs, and he chuckles and dances a silent jig of joy. In fact, if he thought he could get away with it, he would dance openly in front of the mourners. But he knew that would be pushing matters too far; after all there was a certain protocol to be observed and upheld. Then again, he tells himself, the death of someone was meant to be a celebration, so a little dancing wouldn't go astray.

Christophe takes great pleasure at the sight of Henry Ravenscroft's casket as it enters the tomb - the final resting place of his enemy. The man who has been his bane of existence, who had out manoeuvred him on many business deals, and who stole the love of his life, was now worm food, and that though brought great comfort to him. But for all his victory he knew that there were still others to be dealt with.

Christophe turns his gaze upon Sophia. She hadn't even acknowledged him, hell; she didn't even look at him. But he looks at her. She was still beautiful; she still has her looks, her figure, the years hadn't been unkind to her. In fact the more he looks at her the more he wanted her. He felt a stirring in his loins and a yearning to once more enter her. He still has fond memories of their time as lovers. _Perhaps it was possible to woo her again somehow_ , he thinks to himself, a final "up yours" to his fallen nemesis. But then Christophe sees Zane staring at him and he is brought back to reality. He returns the gaze and a slight grin breaks the corner of his lips at the sight of Zane placing a comforting hand upon his mother's. Christophe berates himself for his weakness; there was no time for bloody sentimentality, there was a war to win and although he has taken the high ground the final battle was still on a razor's edge, it could go either way. Throughout history many a battle has been decided by sheer chance upon the field of combat.

Christophe has to stay focus on the job at hand; at all cost he must keep his eye upon the prize.

Leaving the grieving mother and son Christophe moves his attention to Julius - the traitor in the ranks. Christophe became acutely aware, the moment he saw the way Julius was behaving, that it would be only a matter of time before he spilt the beans. The man was practically shaking in his boots, the guilt clearly written upon his face, although most would just read it as grief. Christophe was well aware how weak willed Julius was. Sooner or later he would tell someone what Christophe had forced him to do, probably Sophia, or more likely Zane. As far as Christophe could tell, Julius hadn't yet broken down, so there was still time for another visit. But even if he has already told someone, _what difference would it make_ , Christophe ponders, the removal of Henry Ravenscroft's heart was practically a signed confession. Still, Julius was a loose end that could come back to bite him in the arse, and the one thing that Christophe didn't like were loose ends.

Julius Froberger wouldn't look up, he was afraid of making eye contact with anybody, Zane, his sister, but most of all Christophe. He could feel those evil eyes upon him. Julius knew that he was doomed \- doomed to feel the bitter taste of betrayal for the rest of his natural life. And then beyond life would he not see the accusing face of Henry waiting for him at the gates of hell, because if there was such a place as heaven, he knew there would be no spot for him in it. Julius wonders if he could live with his part he played in the death of Henry Ravenscroft. Although it was only tiny, he just gave a little information – no harm in that - and he didn't realise what Christophe was going to do with it. But even as he has these thoughts he knew that he was kidding himself, trying to absolve himself of his crime and sin, for what else was it. His weakness was his downfall; his lack of action has led to this day.

If he was truly a man, he would have refused Christophe, _but how do you refuse the Devil_ \- he counters with, as the argument continues to rage back and forth within his mind that has been going on for days. Julius hates and loathes himself, Christophe Villon was no devil, he should have struck him down – even killed him – everyone would have been better off if he had done that. If he truly was a Froberger this would have been easy, all his life he has aspired to the unreachable idea of what a true Froberger was – strong – regal – unflinching in the face of adversity. But he was none of that. His whole life was based on a lie, on a desire of lies. And in the end it has resulted in the death of a man, who was not only a friend but a brother to him, a person who never judged him but accepted him for who he was - just a man with all the flaws of the flesh. Henry Ravenscroft was no saint but he had been Julius' best friend for almost thirty years and this thought was playing over and over inside Julius' mind like a favourite film that you watch again and again because you can't get enough of it, although Julius hates this movie and he was now only praying for the ending. But there was no salvation in store for him. No riding off into the sunset, no happy ending at all.

Only misery.

So it was with all these thoughts and emotions running high that Henry Ravenscroft was finally laid to rest amongst his forefathers, the iron gates of the Ravenscroft mausoleum once more shut until the next arrival. As the large chain and black lock was sealed, Zane suddenly thinks of all his family members who were now resting inside beneath wrought marble sarcophaguses like the kings and queens of old and how cold it must be in there, and this inevitably leads him to think of the smallest sarcophagus that lays within, that belonging to his childhood friend and first love, his cousin Alyssa. The thought of her brings a sensation of great loss and melancholy, almost more than what he feels for his father. It has been a while since he thought of her and the fun times they had together.

This memory brings some joy to Zane's heart and he silently hopes that wherever she is that she was warm and happy.

It is then time for the mourners to file pass the widow offering their condolences. One by one they came, speaking softly, their words offering no comfort. The whole process is vapid and robotic as if everyone was just going through the motions, wanting to be away as quickly as possible.

That is until Christophe Villon comes and stands in front of Sophia. "May I offer my sincere condolences Mrs Ravenscroft at your great and tragic loss." His voice is as smooth as silk, and the tension in the air that follows was palatable. All those gathered were expecting an explosion of anger, an outburst of expletives and for a brief moment it seems that Zane would accommodate them. But a wave from his mother halts the words that were on the tip of his tongue. Again, Sophia's regality comes to the forefront as she eyeballs Christophe, her stony expression doesn't crack, her iron will composure doesn't waiver as she looks at the man who had her husband murdered, and then ever so slowly nods her head in recognition, but not a word is uttered or syllable spoken, but to all those gathered there was an unspoken message that passed between the two former lovers - a blatant message that said this whole situation was far from finished.

And then the moment is over.

Christophe turns from Sophia to shake Zane's hand. "Your father was a great man and I appreciated him as such. He was a worthy opponent...in business...he always had the heart for it, as I trust you will." And with those parting words Christophe turns and leaves an angry and smouldering Zane in his wake.

Later, after the mourners have all left, Zane leads his mother to their waiting black limousine. Within moments they are both inside and the car is pulling away. Sophia is silent as she bids a final farewell to her husband. Zane is also quiet, caught up in his own thoughts and what exactly his next move should be. There was no mistaking the gauntlet that Christophe has just thrown down at his feet. And it filled him with such hatred. But it was Sophia who told him what to do next, in a calm, rational, unemotional but cold tone of voice – "Kill him."

CHAPTER 2

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

An unrepentant Eleanor sits alone in the rotunda amongst the gardens of Grimstone Manor, the wooden frame covered in creepers that have interwoven through the trellis' cracking and splitting the wood in many areas. The day, as usual, for this part of the UK was bleak, dreary and overcast, much like Eleanor's mood who was feeling more like a pariah than a Villon at the moment. The news of Henry Ravenscroft's death right on top of her own father's violent reaction to her news about Zane and herself has sent her into a tailspin. The look of murder in her father's eyes is still vividly imprinted on her mind.

She doubts that she would ever forget that look, the look of a beast about to eat its prey, a look of murder.

Shaking the sudden chill from her body, Eleanor contemplates deeply her next move.

She has already left a brief message for Zane saying how sorry she was about his father and that she would wait for him to contact her when he felt it was appropriate _. But who knew when that will be_ _\- he has a lot on his plate to deal with_ , Eleanor thinks, but then again so does she. Her initial thought after telling her father about her feelings for Zane, was to flee, was to run to the arms of her lover, but the news of Henry Ravenscroft's death had halted her. Her showing up at such a time would have complicated matters even further, if that was at all possible. It seems that her only course of action at the moment was to sit tight and see what happens. She felt a myriad of emotions from anger to fear to regret even, but above all she felt so frustrated, her feelings of affection for Zane hadn't waivered, they were as sturdy as ever, if not more so now than before. Eleanor seriously begins to think whether they would ever be together.

She felt the presence of her grandmother rather than hearing the noise of her footsteps walking up to the rotunda. "Eleanor." The voice of Masha reaches her ears. Eleanor hesitantly turns around and looks at Masha, who is standing passively on the top step of the rotunda, a thick black woollen shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders. For a brief second Eleanor has the impression that she is looking at the angel of death.

"Babushka," Eleanor acknowledges.

"We need to talk," Masha replies in a neutral tone.

Eleanor nods slowly. "Of course babushka."

"Bad business this...why Eleanor, why?"

Her question is left hanging in the air for what seems an eternity but in reality is mere seconds. "It just happened," Eleanor answers, "I didn't plan it."

"But you acted upon it," Masha accuses her.

Eleanor felt her strength melt away at the stare her grandmother shot at her. The power this old woman wields over this family was petrifying. In all her years Eleanor has never seen anyone stand up to her. And right now she doesn't know which stare was worse, this one or her father's, they were both equally terrifying. But rather than cave in immediately Eleanor took a deep breath to steady her resolve and reinforce her nerves. "We love each other."

"Love, don't mistake it for lust."

"It's not like that."

"Are you sure he's not just using you to undermine your father."

"No," Eleanor almost shouts in defence of Zane.

"Do you really know that? Do you really know him at all?" Masha says emphasising her words. Masha recalls all those years ago when she met the young Zane and how in that brief encounter she saw something of her own son in him, but she would never mention it as she has no sure footing on that ground; and of course she may have just imagined it.

"I know how you feel babushka."

"Do you?

Eleanor doesn't take the bait. "But this hatred must stop sometime, surely."

"Let me remind you about this...hatred...the Ravenscroft's butchered my family, my sisters, and my parents, massacred, murdered by mindless thugs at the behest of their masters. But before they did that they took their pleasure. Oh yes my dear, they raped my mother and my sisters and made my father watch before blowing them away in a hail of bullets and even after all that they still defiled their corpses. Such actions, such injustice can only be rectified by blood and vengeance, nothing else will ever suffice."

Eleanor can barely look at her grandmother as she speaks, who stands completely still, like a statue, her arms folded beneath her shawl, but the look of anger and betrayal behind her eyes is like fire, an eternal flame of hatred always burning and never extinguished.

Eleanor would find no sympathy here.

"So don't talk to me about love and how sweet and gentle this Ravenscroft is you wish to copulate with," Masha continues, "because I know firsthand the bitter and poisonous pill that lies beneath the candy covered coating. By God Eleanor you're a Villon and you will start acting like one, this family has suffered more than enough tragedy and it will not endure anymore. Never forget that I love and care for you deeply, I have always looked upon you as my own daughter, please Eleanor, don't betray all of that...not for this."

Then, in a complete three-sixty and what seems a sincere gesture, Masha reaches out and places her hands on each of her granddaughter's cheeks and then gently pulls her to her bosom, enveloping her in her arms and shawl. "Everything will be alright...I promise," Masha whispers in Eleanor's ear.

Eleanor doesn't know what to say or do for that matter. She couldn't help feeling like the fly being invited into the spider's den. And yet she really did love her grandmother; she has always been kind, gentle and protective of her ever since the death of her mother when she was nine years old. But Eleanor was no longer that little girl, she was a woman, an adult, and for the first time in her life she knew what she wanted. She loves her grandmother and her father, but her love for Zane was just as great, and her grandmother's vindictive attitude towards him only serves to strengthen Eleanor's resolve to marry the man she truly loves.

Ravenscroft Tower, New York City

The board room was abuzz as the new head of 'Ravenscroft Holdings' held a crisis meeting. The six other members of the board were all in attendance; all the chairs were filled except for the vacant one set aside for the vice president, recently vacated by Zane and yet to be filled. Zane has just finished given an impassioned speech about how the tragic death of his father wouldn't stop the company from moving forward. Zane had already reopened negotiations with Mr. Zarkoff in Israel, even though it was only two days since Henry Ravenscroft was laid to rest, but Zane assures those present that their Middle-East dealings would go ahead.

The board is greatly impressed by Zane's attitude, professionalism and business savvy. Even though they knew Zane was more than capable of running the business, as he has been a very good vice president, still there were always doubts as to whether he could handle the top job, after all Henry Ravenscroft's big shoes would be hard to fill, but this meeting has virtually laid most doubts to rest. Zane could still muck things up and only time will truly tell the tale.

"And what of the vice presidency vacancy, have you got someone in mind to fill that position?" Alfred Hark, the most senior member of the board asks.

"Yes, I still feel that Julius is the best person for the job, he knows the company just as well as any of us and as you know he worked closely with my father," Zane responds without skipping a beat. His suggestion is greeted with nods in the affirmative.

"He has our full support of course, but," Jonas Wallace interjects with, "he has taken the death of Henry very hard. Putting it mildly he seems to be an emotional wreck."

Zane knew that Jonas Wallace was right and he could see that same feeling mirrored in the faces of the other board members. There was no doubt that his uncle was the best man for the job, the only question was if he was still capable of performing it.

"I agree with your assessment, but let's not forget that he and my father were very close and I believe that we shouldn't cast aside such a valuable asset just because he is currently grieving. So I want to give him the opportunity and time to pull himself back together, the position can stay vacant for the time being and if my uncle is not up to the task then I definitely want to take the time to get the correct person to fulfil the position. I mean these are parlous times we're in gentlemen and I think we all agree that we must chart our course very carefully and methodically during this current transitional phase of 'Ravenscroft Holdings'."

The board members, including Mr. Hark are all in agreement with Zane's words. All acutely aware of how precarious the current situation really is.

"One thing I would like to add, if I may," Alfred Hark pipes in with, "is to just say on behalf of the whole board how good a job you have been doing, Zane, during this most trying and evil time. You have shown great character, leadership, strength and dignity and with the passing of your dear father and our friend, that the right Ravenscroft has taken over the reins." Mr. Hark's words of endorsement are followed by a restrained but heartfelt round of applause.

"Thank you Alfred, gentlemen, your support and help is greatly appreciated. My father knew to have the right team around him and if you'll indulge me I intend to make that same mistake." Zane's response is greeted with laughter. "Everything we've been striving for will go on and in the end we will claim the prize. Now, I suggest we break for lunch before going through the candidates for the middle management positions on offer. I also understand that the roast beef sandwiches are particularly enticing today."

With that the meeting adjourns for lunch. The board members begin filing out of the room to make their way to the executive dining room.

Joey Gonza sat in his jaguar XJ 6 outside the Gramercy Park townhouse listening to _"Vesti la giubbe",_ the aria from the Ruggero Leoncavaiio opera "Pagliacci", on the car's tape deck. The music fills the assassin with sorrow; he was a sucker for Italian opera and especially loves "Pagliacci". He listened to it on the night he killed Henry Ravenscroft, it has now become a tradition with him, the playing of this aria before he took someone's life. It was his beloved deceased mother who gave him a love of opera when he was only six, she use to play them to him on her old phonograph. It was the only real entertainment he had growing up in Hell's Kitchen. He came from a poor family, a street kid who learned how to fight and kill on the streets of Brooklyn. You had no choice it was either kill or be killed. He grew up alongside of poor working people as well as Mafia hit men; he knew punks, thugs, dope dealers, street walkers, pimps, loan sharks, hustlers, griffters, goodfellas and an assortment of other riff-raff; all before he was thirteen.

He has been staking out Julius Froberger's premises since just after sunset, waiting and watching, he has no fear of not being inconspicuous, and his vehicle wasn't out of place in this neighbourhood. Joey was a brute of a man, wide shoulders, thick neck, muscular with a chiselled jaw. He was a person who took care of himself; in both body and spirit, he has to be fit in his line of work. He was in his early 40's and has been a freelance gun for hire for the last fifteen years, ten of which he has been working exclusively for Christophe Villon.

This has made him very rich.

Joey began his criminal career as a stand over man for one of the local crime syndicates, where he broke noses, fractured limbs and in general terrorised anyone he was told to, leading to his first kill at 22 years of age.

He quickly made a name and earned a reputation for himself as the guy who got things done amongst the underworld, in fact killing came easy for Joey, and he is one of those rare individuals who can cut themselves off from their emotions, feelings and scruples. He quickly rose up the ladder of bad guys, finally coming to work for the Gambini crime family of New York as their number one hit man. But when the godfather of the family, Tony Gambini, got a bullet in the head, the Gambini family was quickly eaten up by the other sharks in the ocean. As for Joey, he went freelance, eventually coming to the attention of one of the most powerful men in the world – Christophe Villon.

Joey enjoys immense benefits from his current employer. To begin with, he was now wealthy beyond his wildest dreams and leads a leisurely life when not working, also he was now virtually untouchable by the authorities, and when he did attract the attention of a nosey cop or DA, they were quickly told to forget about him – and that he didn't exist. A system similar to some members of the mafia who had been awarded a special number on their license plates that indicated to the police that this car wasn't to be pulled over. But for all the power and influence the crime syndicates thought they had, it was nothing compared to the elite, to the powers-that-be, the sacred bloodline families that controlled so much of the world.

Joey and Christophe rarely saw each other in person, though they did meet when there was something extremely important to be handled, like the killing of Henry Ravenscroft and Julius Froberger; after all Joey was the man who got things done, who made problems go away for good. Most times he was given his orders through a third party, but not of late, there were big things afoot and although he didn't know the complete story, he knew enough to realise that he was playing a role in that story. As far as he knew, no one knew who he was working for, not even those that passed on his orders, there will never be anyway to connect him to the boss and vice a versa, which is how both men like it.

Julius sits naked on his expensive leather sofa in an alcohol fuelled daze. After the funeral Julius returned to his townhouse to drown more than his sorrows; he wanted to deaden the feeling of guilt and betrayal that was raking his whole being. But no matter how much he sculled he couldn't remove the ache and pain that fills his body and soul. He even invited his favourite tranny, Jade, over, but even, what many would say are his deviant sexual preferences, couldn't make him forget, even though Jade made him cum several times, it still wasn't enough to make him forget what he has done. She now lies fast asleep in the bedroom, having been up nearly the whole night with Julius. She finally dropped off a couple of hours ago and ever since Julius has sat on the couch drinking.

He knew that he couldn't go on like this.

He knew that he needed to shape up.

There was work to be done.

He could either forget about what had happened and help Zane with the business, or he could come clean and tell Zane the truth, or he could just not get involved anymore, wash his hands of everything, resign and fade away into the background.

But he couldn't do any of those things; he would never forget; and even if he did walk away, he doubted that Christophe would ever leave him alone; the only proper thing to do was to tell Zane everything, it is the only way to truly nullify the hold Christophe has over him.

_But how_? he asks himself, how can he tell Zane that he had a part in the killing of his father? Julius didn't doubt that he even lacked the courage to do this one simple thing. When you strip it all down he was a coward – a heel and there was no two ways about it.

As Julius's inner turmoil rages on he begins to feel tired, his mind and senses were awash in alcohol. He tells himself that he needs sleep that he would be able to think more clearly after a long rest. But he was too dog gone tired to move, his legs felt like rubber when he tries to stand and so he stays seated on the sofa and closes his eyes, drifting off into what he hopes is a peaceful slumber, but no doubt the demons would be waiting there for him behind his eyelids.

And so, if Julius hadn't sought his answers in the bottle, he just might have noticed the man getting out of the silver Jaguar across the road. But as usual, throughout his entire life, Julius has always failed to see what was coming and it has cost him dearly and this evening wasn't going to be any different.

Meanwhile; several blocks away, Zane was being driven by his chauffeur/bodyguard to his uncle's townhouse at Gramercy Park. The new head of 'Ravenscroft Holdings' sits in the back of the limousine deep in thought. The meeting had gone better than expected and he was now on his way to talk to his uncle and find out exactly where his mind was at. Also Zane began to believe that his uncle may have had some knowledge about his father's death. He was sure that Julius wasn't involved directly or that he even knew that Henry's life was in danger, but someone had to give the information to Christophe Villon about his father's movements, and as much as he didn't like to contemplate the idea, Julius was the obvious choice.

Zane feels sick in the pit of his stomach at such a possibility.

He has also thought long and hard about his father's murder, the timing and planning that went into it was meticulous, even down to ensuring that his father's bodyguard, Bruno, was sick. The report said it was a mild touch of food poisoning, and yet Christophe Villon managed to plan even this without Bruno's knowledge or awareness. But even this element of the scheme Zane has figured out, he remembers his uncle once talking about the many poisonous plants that Christophe's mother kept, an expert in this type of fauna apparently, and history has always shown that poison has always been the assassination weapon of choice for Russians.

Like the master fencer he has become, Zane has always worked things out before a tournament, visualising the bout from start to finish, so that when it actually came to the fight he had already done it hundreds of times in his mind's eye, so he was fully prepared, there was no nerves or tension as in his mind he has already done it to perfection, and of course once you have visualised the moment you can then react to the moment, to whatever the opposition may throw at you. Zane was now calling upon this successful technique, applying it to the current situation, trying to anticipate every thrust and parry so as not to be caught off guard.

The other big thing that was also playing on his mind was of course, Eleanor. He hasn't spoken to her since Zurich, he got the brief message she left, but hadn't yet tried to contact her, even though her voice sounded a little desperate. In truth he didn't know what to say, he didn't know how to handle the situation; he doubted that she knew that it was her own father that had Henry Ravenscroft killed, or at least he hoped so. But how was he even to broach the subject with her, and the way things were going either Christophe Villon or himself would soon be dead. Zane has no idea whether Eleanor has told her father about them like she said she was going to do. And if she did, _God knows what the reaction was like._

Zane quickly realises that thinking what Eleanor knows or doesn't was pointless, it was a distraction and the best way to deal with that was to talk to her as soon as possible. To find out where, if anywhere they are going, but still he has to handle the whole thing delicately. In the meantime he needs to deal with his uncle and he wasn't looking forward to the coming conversation.

Joey Gonza quietly closes the apartment door behind him. The security in the building was a joke; he could have gotten through it with his eyes closed. He stood silently for a moment listening. The townhouse was quiet. Joey tries to get a beat on his target and after several moments he makes out the sound of someone snoring softly. He deftly makes his way down the hallway and into the living room. He instantly espies his prey asleep in a sitting position on the sofa, his head resting back, the neck exposed. _Perfect_ , Joey thinks with a cold hearted grin.

He looks around the room with a keen eye. Finally he spots Julius' black pants belt on the floor. Like a cat he quietly makes his way across the floor, picks up the belt, and then moves stealthily behind the sofa. Joey stands behind the completely unaware Julius, ignoring his victims shrivelled up manhood; he smirks as he slowly places the belt over Julius' head, around his throat, and commences to choke him to death.

Julius' eyes snap open, his senses still dull, he nonetheless tries to struggle, to break free from deaths grip. But the grip it is too strong and he is too weak. He tries to catch his breath but he can't, a loud gurgling sound coming from his throat. The affixation causes the blood in his body to stop flowing which in turn causes his penis to become erect as white spots begin dancing before his eyes from the lack of oxygen, as the world around him goes black and he falls into oblivion.

When Joey is sure that Julius is dead, he releases his grip on the belt and slowly makes his way to the bedroom. He sees the naked body of sleeping Jade upon the bed and again smiles wickedly to himself, thinking that a murder suicide will do just fine. He quietly makes his way up to the side of the bed, takes one of the pillows in his hands and sets about smothering the hapless victim.

Joey Gonza loves his job, but not quite as much as his opera.

Zane stands in his uncle's townhouse as the police secure the scene.

After finding Julius' naked body hanging from the shower, a black belt used as a noose, and the other dead naked person upon the bed, Zane phoned the Mayor who got onto the Chief of Police, who was now on the scene handling the situation. The image of his uncle's bloated tongue and thick frothy white salvia dribbling down his body would be imprinted on Zane's psyche for life. That and the fact that when he arrived the body was still warm, meaning that Julius expired not long before Zane arrived. If he had been a bit earlier he may have been able to save him. One thing for sure there was no way that Zane was going to allow this to get into the media. He would pull out all stops on this one. In a couple of weeks time there will be a public announcement that his uncle has died of a heart attack, and was buried in a private ceremony. His uncle certainly lived the life of pleasures and addiction, so the news of a heart attack won't come as a shock to anyone. The difficult part will be the handling of the other body.

"God - what a mess," Zane mumbles.

Even though all indications suggest that his uncle has committed suicide, after first murdering his companion, Zane didn't buy it, his uncle was a loose end and now he was dead and it seems that Christophe Villon was leaving nothing to chance.

Zane's mind was racing at a hundred miles per hour trying to contemplate all the steps that now must be taken, that he hadn't even felt any grief for the death of his uncle – just a slow bubbling anger, a bent up rage waiting to be unleashed. Zane tries desperately to subdue his emotions, knowing full well that he can't afford to make any more mistakes or the war would be lost. News has already reached his ears today of certain factions who have supported his family for decades were beginning to make secret overtones towards the other side. The old alliances were starting to crack.

But no matter what step he takes to shore up allegiances, Zane knows, that in the end the mad dog that is Christophe Villon, has to be put down. The only question that remains for Zane was how to do the deed before Christophe did it to him.

CHAPTER 3

Athens, Greece

The majestic Parthenon can be seen through the panoramic window of Sebastian Villon's penthouse office of the 'Atlas Shipping Co.', and while it is a truly awe inspiring sight, there is another voyeuristic display taking place on the large marble desk. Blissfully engaged in intercourse, Sebastian and his beautiful secretary are nearing orgasm.

"Give it to me \- give it to me..." the black haired brown eyed beauty moans to her boss.

"I'm cumming - I'm cumming..." Sebastian pants like a dog.

"Cum with me - cum with me..." she implores.

Yes - yes..."

The intercom buzzes followed by an urgent announcement from the receptionist that Christophe Villon has arrived unexpectedly and is on his way up.

"Shit," Sebastian calls out.

"Get off me quick," his secretary hastily recommends.

"But I haven't shot my load yet," Sebastian informs her.

"Don't be stupid," she replies as she physically pushes Sebastian off of her and jumps off the table like she was sitting on a coiled spring, all lady-like virtues gone as she sets about straightening her skirt and putting her panties back on. While Sebastian pulls up his jocks and pants, glad now that he didn't take his shoes and socks off.

The pair only just manages to readjust their clothing before the door bursts open and Christophe enters the room followed by a well dressed man, called Desmond York, one of his most trusted executives, if there was such a thing for Christophe.

"Ah father, what a pleasant surprise," Sebastian says in a flush manner as if nothing were a stray, "that'll be all Miss Terriokos," he adds dismissing his secretary.

"Yes sir," she says more than a little flustered. She turns and exits the office.

Christophe watches her leave; after she has gone he turns back to his son and says. "Your fly is still undone."

Sebastian gives a stupefied expression, before facing the other way and zipping himself up.

"You finally become head of this company and this is what you're doing with your time?" Christophe lectures.

Sebastian instantly recognises the harsh tone of his father's voice and knows right away that this isn't a pleasure visit. Sebastian tries to make light of the moment. "Just reviewing her skills."

"I'm in no mood for jokes," Christophe is all business, "if your wife finds out she'll cut your balls off."

"No need to worry about that," Sebastian reassures them, although the sexual fire between him and his wife Nikki had started to wane somewhat, especially since the recent death of her father, Stavros Mitsotakis.

Christophe moves right along. "You know Desmond."

"Yes, of course."

"Good, he'll be taking over for you." Christophe announces nonchalantly as if he were merely commenting on the weather.

"What? What do you mean?" A flabbergasted Sebastian asks.

"As you may or may not know, depending on how much you have been screwing around, but with the recent tragic demise of Henry Ravenscroft an opportunity has presented itself, a possibility of undermining the Ravenscrofts once and for all. And that's why I want you in London where I can keep an eye on you."

"An eye on me?"

"Exactly, you see I don't trust you, you're incompetent, just like I don't trust your brother and that little bitch of a sister of yours." Christophe's words are full of venom. "And I want nothing to spoil the broth that I'm about to serve up."

"But papa, everything is going splendidly here; profits are up, revenue is pouring in and the takeover of Poseidon Shipping is on track, the papers are to be signed next week, I have to be here," Sebastian exclaims. But his protests fall on deaf ears.

"My mind is made up. Desmond here can handle things until this business is over, and if you're a good little boy, I may let you come back here, as his assistant."

Sebastian has no idea whether his father is kidding or not. "But I've worked so hard."

"Too bad," Christophe tells him.

"You're joking \- surely?"

"When have you ever known me to joke?"

"But papa," he protests.

"Don't defy me," Christophe tells him coldly.

Sebastian cannot believe his ears, after all his hard work; his father was benching him, squashing the dream of his ocean empire. He wants to yell, to shout his father down, but he couldn't as Christophe has too much power over the company. Once again his father was taking control of his life, telling him what he could and couldn't do; it was the same old tune, a tune that Sebastian was getting tired of hearing. His father was like the pied piper leading his children wherever he wanted; but as the saying goes: _"He who pays the piper owns the tune"_ \- Sebastian reminds himself. This latest humiliation understandably increases Sebastian's already deep resentment towards his father.

London, England

It is a fog filled night by the side of the Thames River in the sight of Cleopatra's Needle. The night lights of the city in the background can barely be distinguished. In the distance Big Ben strikes the tenth hour. A nervous Malcolm Donald stamps on the butt of his spent cigarette. The Sun newspaper reporter has been waiting for a half hour; the many scattered cigarette butts on the damp pavement bare testimony to this fact. He has been a journalist pounding the streets of this great city for more than twenty-five years; he has faced down murderers, rapists, pimps, drug dealers, corrupt officials, cops, politicians and the odd celebrity in his time, but none made him as edgy as who he was meeting tonight.

The sound of a small barge moving down the river is heard. Malcolm listens as the vessel sails on and the churning water begins to subside. But soon the silence returns. For a brief moment it seems to Malcolm as if the whole city has vanished, then footsteps: the noise of approaching footsteps reach his ears. The reporter looks around as the steady sound of somebody walking draws ever closer. He tries to discern in which direction they are coming from, but the dense fog doesn't give anything away. In fact, for a moment it seems as if the footsteps were coming from every direction.

Malcolm never carries a gun but tonight he wish he has one.

Then, like an apparition, a dark figure, dressed in a fur lined coat, slowly emerges from the surrounding mist to stand a few feet in front of him. This wasn't the first time that Malcolm has come face to face with Christophe Villon, and as with all the other times it still creeps him out, even a seasoned reporter like himself felt fear when the prince of darkness came calling.

The Devil comes straight to the point. "Show me."

Malcolm hands over the manila envelope that he has been holding. "He's public profile has definitely increased, he is appearing to be acting more recklessly and is now starting to become newsworthy," Malcolm hurriedly adds, wanting for this meeting to be over quickly. "It's only a matter of time before it reaches the front pages."

Christophe opens the envelope and takes out the dozen black and white photos within. By the light of a small torch he examines the pictures of his son, Edmonde. They show him in a variety of public venues, namely clubs, in the presence of Charlie and Darcy Berry, as well as with an assortment of other known criminals.

Christophe is not pleased by what he sees. But he says nothing. After several moments he puts the photos back in the envelope and then reaches into his pocket and removes another envelop, a smaller, thicker, white one, that he tosses to Malcolm.

Then without saying another word, Christophe, turns around, and just as quickly as he appeared, he disappears once again into the fog.

Malcolm breathes an audible sigh of relief, glad that it was over. He has a quick glance at the wad of cash inside of the envelope, before pocketing it and quickly moving off. He has no hesitation at selling out. He knew full well that people like Mr. Villon were starting to buy up the world's media, or using third parties in their stead, so as far as he was concerned he was simply taking money from the boss.

An hour later Christophe's Phantom Rolls Royce pulls up outside the London apartment of Edmonde Villon. "We're here," comes the voice of Joey Gonza from the front seat where he sits behind the steering wheel. Christophe, sitting in the rear, slowly nods his head, as if he were the spectre of death slowly passing judgement: "Time to get this nasty business out of the way."

Inside the ritzy apartment, Edmonde snorts up the deadly white powder line of cocaine. He was all alone and had been doing lines most of the night and was now as high as Joe Cocker. Dressed in leopard jocks and wearing nothing other than a black and red dragon printed kimono, Edmonde looks anything other than a member of one of the most powerful elite families in Europe. At the moment all he could see were the fairies dancing around his head, as he took a trip merrily, merrily down the garden path. He is so far under the influence of cocaine that he barely notices his father enter the room.

Christophe beholds the goofy look upon his son's face and is sick to the pit of his stomach by the sight of it. He cannot believe that this person sprung from his loins. It's a good thing that Edmonde's mother is dead, he tells himself, otherwise he would go home and punch her in the mouth for giving birth to a cretin like this.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Christophe accuses, tossing down the incriminating photos onto the glass table spilling the small pile of cocaine onto the floor. He is in no mood for games.

"Hey...don't do that," Edmonde slurs his words as he attempts to move off the couch to save his stash before deciding that it's too much trouble to move. "What's wrong with you?"

"With me, nothing, with you, plenty."

Edmonde doesn't have a clue. "Good...good."

"I told you to be careful and not draw too much attention to yourself." Christophe admonishes his son. "And now look at you, you little shit, you might as well take out an ad in the classifieds. Your irresponsible behaviour could ruin my plans and I can't allow that."

Edmonde nods like an idiot.

"Well, don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

Edmonde fails to offer any defence. Instead, he smiles. "Chill out man."

"You pathetic excuse for a man," Christophe says in a cold and heartless tone, that Edmonde fails to notice in his drug induce stupor. "I've given you plenty of rope, free reign to pursue your desires, to further our cause. But you're reckless, and just like Icarus, you fly too close to the sun, and that is why I intend to clip your wings before you burn up. Believe me when I say that this is going to hurt me just as much as you."

As Christophe leaves the room he turns to Joey Gonza, who has been standing quietly by in the shadows. "I'll be in the car when you're done."

Joey acknowledges his bosses' words with a slight nod of the head. Saying no more, Christophe exits the apartment. Joey slowly and methodically, puts on his black leather gloves one hand at a time, like a surgeon about to perform an operation. Then, just like his master, Joey also offers no words, as he crosses to the couch and proceeds to beat up the helpless Edmonde.

Eleanor sits in one of the exclusive viewing rooms of Harrods Department Store in London, supping an espresso, watching a bevy of beautiful models parade the latest fashion designs for her. She decided that shopping was the best medicine to help cure her melancholies; a bit of retail therapy was exactly what the doctor had ordered. Although in truth, she wasn't really noticing the gorgeous and expensive dresses being shown to her, as she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being followed. She didn't see anyone suspicious and yet ever since leaving Grimstone yesterday she couldn't shake the sensation that there were unseen eyes upon her.

She concludes that her father was probably having her watched. Making sure she didn't do anything she wasn't suppose to – or see anyone not approved by her father. She desperately wants to call Zane but knew that the idea was foolish. And the mere fact that her father might be going to such lengths as to have her followed, really scares her. Eleanor even begins to wonder whether her father might actually have her killed. She knows that her imagination was getting the better of her, but still there was no denying the anger and hatred directed at her the other day. And although she keeps telling herself that her father would never do anything as extreme as having her done away with, she couldn't help but believe that her father was sick, that the Villon madness has claimed him, and if that was the case then who knew what he was capable of.

"Something must be done," Eleanor says beneath her breath.

"Excuse me Miss," the polite sounding voice of Claude, the floor manager, interrupts Eleanor's ponderings.

Eleanor looks at him seeing that the display has come to an end. "Oh, yes, right, sorry."

"Not a problem Miss, will you be taking any?"

Eleanor thinks a moment. "The De Von and Barrucci, I should think."

"Excellent choice Miss, will you be taking them with you or should I have them sent onto you?"

"I'll take them with me, Claude; I'm not sure how long I'll be in town at the moment."

"Very good, I'll attend to that immediately; I shall only be a few moments. In the meantime would you like some cake?"

"No thanks, the coffee's fine."

"Very good." Claude slightly bows before moving off.

Eleanor can't help but smile, being rich does have its many perks, pompous shop managers grovelling to you being one of them.

Eleanor finishes off her coffee as she once again picks up her train of thought before it was broken. She knew that there has to be a way to sort out this whole business, but for the life of her she couldn't see one that didn't involve a tragic outcome. Eleanor was just deciding that this problem needed to be solved by more than just her, when she is once again disturbed by Claude.

"Your pardon Miss," Claude interjects, clearly upset about something, "I cannot sell you the dresses."

"What are you talking about?"

Claude is like a cat on a hot tin roof. "I've just been informed that all purchases on your account must be approved by Mr. Villon – your father."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I was just told now. I'm sure there's a simple explanation. Would you like me to call him - or would you prefer to do it," Claude suggests with that well trained smile of his.

Eleanor was completely stunned by this news, so much so that you could knock her down with a feather.

"Miss?" Claude says.

"Don't worry about it Claude, I'll talk to him and sort it all out."

"Very good."

"Could you leave me for a moment?"

"Of course, please, take your time; I'll have some scones sent up," Claude tells her before making a somewhat hasty exit.

_What was her father playing at?_ It was obvious that he was trying to curtail her, to show how he controlled the purse strings and that she better behave or else. She was in no doubt that there would be conditions attached to all her accounts from now on and this made her furious. She wasn't a child – a wayward teenager – and yet that is exactly how her father was now treating her.

"Something has to be done," she again tells herself with grim determination. And yet inwardly she was scared, frightened at what was yet to come.

Paris, France

Masha feels old. She has been fighting the onset of time for many years now through diet, radical gene therapy both legally and illegally, and she has been winning the battle, but tonight, as the wind and rain lashes the windows of the Villon's Champs Elysees apartment, she felt all of her eighty plus years.

Masha fears for her son.

"How could you treat them like this?" She asks looking out the misted up window.

"They can't be trusted and must be brought to heel," Christophe answers as he knocks back his third glass of vodka.

Masha shakes her head, only having learned a few hours ago what had been done to Sebastian, Edmonde and Eleanor. She understands her son's motivation but she didn't prove of his actions. "You could have handled it more diplomatically."

"Fuck diplomacy, your granddaughter was shagging the enemy, and your grandsons are nothing but tossers. They're getting out of hand, threatening my plans; they must be brought under control. I didn't cut out Henry Ravenscroft's fucking heart for nothing, you know."

Masha didn't want to turn around and look at her son, she was afraid of what she would see looking back at her. But there was work to be done and she was a Zhukovsky, and they didn't flinch at anything.

"Still, your tactics regarding your children leave a lot to be desired," she says. She turns around and faces her son and instantly glimpses the same madness in his eyes that was prevalent in her husbands, Christophe's father's eyes – the damn curse of the Villon madness.

"Don't worry about them, they'll be alright. I've taken away their toys. They'll do exactly as they're told. I need no distractions at this time. You understand don't you?" Christophe's words are like those of a young child seeking parental approval at what they have done.

"As you say, they were getting out of hand," Masha says with great diplomacy. "We must still keep a weathered eye on them."

"Don't worry mama, if they step out of line again I'll know and I'll take the appropriate steps necessary." Christophe's trenchant words do little to appease Masha's anxiety.

"But don't forget that they're the future of the House of Villon," she gently reminds him.

"I know. And what a future it will be," Christophe informs her with glee, "it is a great time, is it not, it has seen the end of Henry Ravenscroft and that traitorous Froberger and it will soon see the end of the whole cursed House of Ravenscroft."

Christophe moves to his mother and kneels before her kissing her hand. "I shall avenge the injustice that has been done to you. It is all I dream about now and it is so close that I can taste it. Don't be mad at me, everything I've done I do for you and our family. I have always worshipped you."

Masha reaches out with her free hand and places it on her son's head. She is suddenly filled with pride, overcome to the point that a tear comes to her eye. Her son was doing exactly what she has always wanted him to; the destruction of the Ravenscrofts. To her this was more important than even 'The Work of Ages'.

"I love you my son, more than you will ever know. And I am so proud of you. You will be the destroyer of our enemies and the saviour of our family." Masha puts her arms around her son, hugging him close to her body. "Your hate makes you strong."

## CHAPTER 4

The Hamptons

"Please come." That was the message Zane receives from Eleanor.

He was at the exclusive Hampton Sports Club playing polo when he got the message from one of the attendants. He came to the club to try and work out the tension he was feeling throughout his body. The match had gotten spiteful to the point that Roger Walker was knocked from his stead and broke his arm. As for Zane, he has received several knocks to the arms from the polo sticks and retaliated appropriately. He was finally removed from the game on account of rough play, and while disappointing, he did feel somewhat better.

Then came Eleanor's message.

It was obvious that something has happened.

But what?

He assumes it might have something to do with her father's recent moves against their UK interests.

Whitehall has just started an investigation into 'Ravenscroft Holdings' current dealings in the English stock market. The whole exercise was designed to pave a path for a coup of 'Rhodes of London', the main UK banking and insurance company subsidiary of 'Ravenscroft Holdings".

Hours earlier Zane had received an urgent call from Thomas O'Keefe, general manager of the firm, imploring Zane to get over there as soon as possible as they were extremely vulnerable.

Zane knew full well that if they lost 'Rhodes of London' that this would be a heavy blow against their UK and European interests, coupled with the recent desertions of leading families from the Ravenscroft to the Villon banner, meant that Zane could not lose this battle. He was a little hesitant about going to London as it meant he would be in enemy held territory, but he has no choice. And besides it meant seeing Eleanor again and he would risk anything, even life itself, for that opportunity.

An hour after showering Zane had the Ravenscroft jet fuelled and waiting on the tarmac. A short helicopter ride from Avalon bought him to the Ashton Private Airfield and three hours after getting Eleanor's message Zane was in the air and en route to London.

"Be careful," Aunt Margaret warned him earlier as he packed a bag at home.

"I will."

"And be careful who you trust," she urges, "remember what I once told you, in the end the only person you can really rely on, is yourself."

"I haven't forgotten. I'll be fine, don't worry."

London, England

At the stroke of midnight Zane arrives at Eleanor's doorstep. He comes to her London apartment directly from the airport. Eleanor's heart skips a beat as she opens the door and sees his beautiful face staring back at her from the other side.

"Oh my," she manages to get out before they fall into each other's arms. They shut the door behind them continuing to embrace and smother one another in kisses. The attraction between them just as strong as when they first met. The fire and passion instantly rekindles within them. Their hands grope at the other's clothes. "Take me...please take me now..." Eleanor pleads. Zane moves his hands beneath her skirt. "God I love you so much...I truly do," she says as they fall back onto the sofa.

"All I need is you," Zane informs her as he nibbles on her neck while his hands slip off her underwear. At the same time Eleanor undoes Zane's trousers in order to get at his rock hard erection which she quickly guides inside of her, letting out a cry of utter pleasure at the feeling of his manhood once more entering her. Their lovemaking is fast and furious, each climaxing within minutes. Afterwards they lay in each other's arms in silence listening to the others breathing. Each feels whole when they were together. They stay like this for several minutes before finally adjourning to Eleanor's boudoir to continue their reunion.

Meanwhile across the street; unbeknown to them, a grim face Joey Gonza sits behind the wheel of a black Aston Martin V8, observing Eleanor's Kensington Park apartment, while listening to the opera _La Boheme_ , which as usual brings a tear to his eye. He gently wipes the tear away as another one forms.

He watches the building until Eleanor's bedroom light is turned off. Satisfied, Joey starts up the engine and pulls away into the darkness to the sad song of _Mini_ and _Rodolfo_ singing of the earlier days of their love before, and the sound of _Musetta's_ soft prayer as Mini falls asleep and dies.

In the early hours of the morning Eleanor takes several minutes to wake up, enjoying the gentle wake up intercourse from her lover. It was hard enough to tell whether this was real or a dream. But the warmth and body heat emanating off of Zane told her that this was all too real. _I could get use to this_ , she tells herself, as Zane comes inside of her.

The morning exploits are followed up by a warm bath, a wonderful concomitant and tailpiece to the lovemaking that has just transpired. Zane and Eleanor soap each other's bodies, after intercourse it was a fantastic and natural come back to domesticity and the challenges that laid ahead for both of them.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

A heavy morning mist hung over the moors and the grounds of Grimstone. The birds of the moor begin their early dawn chatter. The twitting sound echoing across the bog like the moans of dead spirits. Having been locked away in its nightly slumber the moor began to stir and waken.

Christophe loves this time of the day.

The head of the House of Villon sits on the terrace having his morning cup of tea and bland rye toast. His senses soaking up the sights and sounds of the enchanted realm around him; that is how he has always looked upon the moor. There was a crisp morning chill in the air, but no wind, just stillness and the sweet soothing noise of mother nature. Christophe's frosted breath rose into the air with every breath he took, but he didn't mind the cold, he relishes it.

It made him feel strong.

It made him feel powerful.

And above all it made him feel alive.

Life felt good today for Christophe. He slept like a log last night, with no dreams, no nightmares, no visitations from his dead father, and no pain in his head. In fact he hadn't even noticed it the last few days. _Perhaps I can beat it_.

"Perhaps," he echoes his thoughts out loud. Life was indeed good for Christophe on this day. "We commit the Golden Rule to memory and forget to commit it to life," he waxes philosophically out loud to the world around him.

Moments later he is interrupted by the butler. "Pardon the intrusion sir, but you have a phone call."

"Alright Malcolm, thank you," he responds, before standing and crossing to the telephone table just inside the patio door.

He picks up the receiver. "Yes?"

"They spent the night together," came the unemotional sounding voice of Joey Gonza down the line.

"Are you positive?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what to do. And don't make it too painful." He hangs up the phone, seemingly unperturbed by his orders; after all he did give them all fair warning.

London, England

Later in the morning Eleanor and Zane sit at the breakfast table eating grapefruit, still dressed in their bathrobes.

Eleanor admires Zane. "God you're gorgeous."

"Yeah, well, you scrub up alright in the morning as well."

"I just haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

"Same here, even with everything that has been going on, you're still at the forefront of my thoughts," he confesses.

Eleanor can't help herself; she reaches across the table and kisses him. "I'm so sorry about your father; you must be in so much pain."

"Not so bad when I'm with you."

"Was he murdered, your father, it's been so hard to get any details." Eleanor feels bad for broaching the subject, but she needs to know.

"Yes...assassinated."

"Do they know who the killer was?"

"No."

"Was my father involved?" Eleanor asks bluntly.

The question comes completely out of left field and floors Zane. It is left dangling over the edge for several moments awaiting a reply.

"Yes," Zane tells her.

Silence follows his response.

"Eleanor I...."

"No," she interrupts, "you don't have to give me the details." She shakes her head in despair. "Oh papa...why...why?"

Zane places a comforting hand on Eleanor's. It's all he can think to do. He wasn't planning on bringing the matter up like this but now it was out in the open and they had to deal with it.

"Well," Eleanor finally responds, "this is a fine kettle of fish, isn't it."

"Yeah."

"I suppose something like this was inevitable, with the years of hatred between our families finally reaching boiling point."

"I know," he says, "to tell you the truth, between you and me, I'm surprised my father didn't try the same thing first. I'm sure he had been thinking about it."

"It's all such a waste."

"I know."

"Oh God Zane, how is this going to end? With the destruction of both our families? I mean, I should feel utter repulsion towards my father for what he has done, and it sickens me to the stomach, but I still feel - sorry for him. I don't know why? He was never there for us when we were growing up. He treated my mother like shit; he has cruelness in him like you wouldn't believe – but most of that stems from the way his father treated him. I just...I just...fuck." Eleanor is at loss for words.

Zane offers reassurance. "Hey, don't beat yourself up over this, as the saying goes; we can choose our friends but not our family."

This brings a belated wry smile to Eleanor's face. "I guess."

"I love you Eleanor, this doesn't change how I feel about you, and you know that, don't you?"

"Yes I know. I see it in your eyes when you look at me. I feel it when you touch me and even more so when you make love to me. This shouldn't be – you and I – it should be taboo, and yet it feels so right. My feelings for you haven't changed either, I doubt they ever will."

"You don't know how good that makes me feel to hear you say that," he ardently tells her.

"Oh yes I do, because I feel the exact same way."

Eleanor stands and crosses to Zane putting her arms around him, who returns in kind.

"We can work this out," he reassures her.

"You think?"

"Tell me, did you ever mention me to your father, like you were going to?"

"Yes," she says, "it was right before I heard the news of your father. My God, Zane, the look in his eyes when I told him. I could swear that he was going to kill me. I almost believe that the fact I was his daughter was the only thing that stayed his hand. Shit - why do I still care for this man?"

"You don't think he would really try and hurt you?" Zane asks with great concern.

"I don't now – I don't think so. God, you probably want him dead, don't you?"

"No," he replies, "but he needs to be neutralised."

"I don't want him hurt, I know that's a ludicrous suggestion after what he's done, but it's the way I feel. Surely we can put an end to this madness – you and I."

"Of course we can. There's nothing we can't do together as a team."

"Although I don't know how, Papa's already begun putting restrictions on me and my brothers," she tells him, "and not just financial, I'm pretty sure he's been having me watched, although that could be my paranoia, which I must admit has been running rampant of late, I can tell you that much."

"Then you'd say his behaviour is becoming more erratic, more tyrannical?"

"That's an understatement," Eleanor replies despondently.

"Well, we won't decide anything now," he tells her, "we both need time to think this through. Let's just spend this day together. It'll be alright, you'll see, I promise."

"Then I willingly put myself in your hands, my love."

"And mine in yours," he offers back.

They once more embrace and kiss, first tenderly and then passionately, lovers now in both spirit and flesh. Like Romeo and Juliet; Cleopatra and Anthony; Siegfried and Brunnhilde; their fates, lives and destinies were now entwined and what happens to one will surely happen to the other.

While Zane and Eleanor once more coupled, across the city at his modest and unobtrusive hotel, Joey Gonza sharpens his knives. He has them laid out on the bed in a small black leather pouch that rolls out. The dozen blades were of various shapes, sizes and designs, from a large Bowie knife to a combat knife, several throwing knives, a double edged dagger, two switchblades and a small three inch blade that could be easily concealed in the palm of one's hand. Shiny and all made from Spanish steel, each weapon has been personally crafted to Joey's specifications. The Spaniard, Santo Rodriguez, made the best blades for killing, he has many clients, but Joey was one of his best.

Every knife that Joey has in front of him has taken someone's life, including the life and then heart of Henry Ravenscroft, the edge of his bowie knife was responsible for that little trick. But as Joey kept up the maintenance of his beloved weapons, he wasn't yet sure which one he would use tomorrow. There was no doubt that he would use a knife, quick, easy and less noisy than a gun, the only question that remains was which one.

By the time Joey completes his cleaning of the weapons, he has decided.

Zane left Eleanor's apartment early the next morning.

"Let's meet later tonight. I'll be in meetings for the whole day trying to nip this whole securities investigation in the butt, yet I should be back at my hotel, the Savoy, around seven," he told her before leaving.

"Okay, I'll come by around eight," she answered as he was walking out the door.

It has been a wonderful twenty-four hours for them both. They made love, snuggled in front of the fire, drank wine, ate, and whispered sweet pillow talk into each other's ears, and they also talked earnestly about their future together, their families united as one when this whole business with her father was taken care of.

But that was the dilemma Eleanor ponders as she went for her morning jog through Saint James Park in the City of Westminster, Central London. The oldest of the Royal Parks of London was virtually deserted this morning, the early hour and cold keeping many away. So Eleanor has peace and quiet to think about their problem as she jogs around the small lake, with only the squawks of the waterfowl for company. The top of Buckingham Palace was just visible breaking through the wall of mist in the background. The park was bounded by the palace to the west, The Mall and St. James Palace to the north, the Horse Guards to the east and Birdcage Walk to the south; a more picturesque and historical park you would be hard press to find.

Eleanor has only taken up jogging recently. She did most of her exercise at the gym, either at Grimstone when she was at home, or Woodlands when she was in London. Her personal trainer was the one who put her onto running, not only was it good vesicular exercise, Eleanor also found it a good time to focus on whatever problem she may be having. Yet today, no matter how hard she tries she couldn't come up with a solution about her father that didn't involve him getting hurt. In fact, Eleanor is so engrossed in her problem that she doesn't notice the large track suited man, wearing a hoodie, jogging about twenty feet behind her and gaining rapidly.

Joey Gonza couldn't help but admire Eleanor's rear end as he ran behind her. She was extremely attractive and Joey thought it was a shame to kill such a fine specimen of womanhood.

But, he has a job to do.

And Joey has always prided himself on his professionalism; he was yet to fail an assignment. He picked up his target a few minutes ago, sneaking out from behind a tree as she ran past him. He easily fell in step behind her, quickly shortening the distance between them.

Eleanor jogs on unaware.

Joey was now within ten feet of her – nine – eight – seven – six – he smells her perfume mingled in amongst her sweat. He closes the final few feet to his victim. Joey removes the stiletto switchblade from his pocket; the same knife he used to kill Henry Ravenscroft with, it was Joey's lucky knife. His intention was to grab Eleanor from behind, and plunge the blade into her lungs, knowing that with a punctuated lung she won't be able to scream as all the air in her body will be rushing out.

He smiles at how easy this was going to be.

He flicks open the knife.

And reaches for Eleanor.

Eleanor hears the flicking sound of the knife and looks over her shoulder just as Joey's strong hand grabs her around the chest. Her eyes go wide in terror. She goes to yell but instead trips over her own feet. She crashes to the ground in a heap scrapping her elbows and skinning her knee. But her injuries were secondary as she only has eyes for the man looming above her and the knife in his hand coming straight at her.

She was dead.

She knew it.

She didn't scream.

She simply stares in surprise.

Her father was actually going to have her killed.

She couldn't believe this was happening.

She and Zane had made so many plans about their future - which was all for nought as Eleanor was only seconds away from dying.

Shock and then disbelief races through her mind followed by a brief image of Zane's face - a face she would never see again.

As her death approached everything around her seems to be in slow motion. She saw clearly the large frame of the man blocking out the view in front of her; the wicked grin upon his face; the pointed blade mere inches from her chest, glistening as the rays of the morning sun chose this exact moment to break through the mist and shine upon it.

Then came the bright flash from the corner of her eye and the sound of a muffled shot. Her assailant sinks to the ground. In shock, Eleanor turns and sees a dark-suited male figure, nearby, walking away, pocketing a pistol with a silencer on it.

Slowly the world around Eleanor rushes back in upon her.

Joey Gonza lies on the ground - shot in the back - his lifeless eyes staring up at her - an expression of surprise frozen on his dead features.

There would be no more operas for Joey Gonza.

A short time later Eleanor fell into Zane's arms.

The tension leaving her body.

As soon as he got word of what occurred, he rushed back to his penthouse suite at the Savoy, were Eleanor was waiting.

"Hold me please," she begs. Zane complies. "It was horrid, I just ran, left him there. I haven't even been back to my place - I can't go back there – I won't go back."

"What you need is a stiff drink, steady the nerves."

"I've already had several," she informs him indicating the empty glass on the table.

"What about those scrapes?" Zane asks looking at the bandaids covering them.

"I cleaned them, slapped on some iodine and a bandaid. Field dressings, you know," she adds trying to make light of the situation.

"Still, they need to be looked at. I'll get a doctor to come by."

"Fine – fine – I can't believe he did it. I knew he was pissed but this - I'm flabbergasted Zane, utterly shredded."

"But you're safe and that's what's important and I plan to keep you that way, so until this is sorted out you stay here."

"I can't be a prisoner. Shit," she says shrugging her shoulders, "I still don't know what exactly happened and who the hell that guy was that saved my life?"

"He works for me." Zane holds up a hand to Eleanor to let him finish first. "Technically he was here to protect me, but when you told me about the threats levelled against you I gave him orders to watch over you, just in case."

"You could have told me," she says a little hurt.

"I didn't want to stress you any further. Besides, I was just looking out for you."

"I know...and thanks."

"I'm just glad you're alright?"

"God, I'm still shaking."

Zane hands her a glass with some whiskey in it. "Here you go."

Eleanor takes the offering and drinks, the fire water immediately soothing her frayed nerves.

"Better?" he asks.

She nods in the affirmative. "Much."

"Good."

"Although I think I'll still need a few more," she hastily adds.

"Think I'll join you," he tells her as he pours two more glasses.

"So now what?" She queries.

"We stop your old man from doing anymore damage."

"How?"

"I've got an idea about that," he announces cryptically.

CHAPTER 5

London Zoo

The following day, Sebastian, Edmonde, Eleanor and Zane meet up at the entrance of London Zoo. They retreat to the relative seclusion of a nearby gazebo. All those present are quiet and hesitant, each caught up in their own thoughts.

A strange gathering of conspirators to be sure.

But these are strange times for the off spring of the Villon and Ravenscroft families.

Sebastian seems the most nervous, while Edmonde's face still bares the black, blue and red marks of his recent run in with the late Joey Gonza, even the large dark sunglasses he wears cannot hide the swelling around his eyes.

But it is Edmonde who breaks the silent stalemate. "So why the fuck did you call us here

Eleanor?"

"I asked for this meeting," Zane interjects deciding that it should be him that takes the

initiative.

"Oh really, and why would you do that?" His words slightly mumbled due to his swollen bottom lip, but there was no mistaking the venomous tone in his voice.

"Edmonde – please, just listen." Eleanor implores her brother.

"To him?"

"Yes, it's for our benefit," she urges.

"I called for this meeting because I feel it's time to put our differences aside and reunite towards the formation of an omnipotent, global entity," Zane tells them with a sweeping suggestion of his hands.

"Jesus, Eleanor, if papa should see us," Sebastian says nervously looking over his shoulder.

"Stop acting like a child for just a moment," Eleanor chides Sebastian.

"You want us to betray father, don't you?" Sebastian asks.

"It's not like that," she implores.

"Sleeping with the enemy is more your style, sis," he implies with lubricious, while glancing at them both.

"There's no call for that," a fired up Zane tells him.

"Zane, please." Eleanor halts him, giving him a brief look telling him that it will be alright, before turning on her older brother. "Our father tried to kill me yesterday and if it wasn't for Zane I would be dead, so the least you can do is just shut up and listen."

"What do you mean try to kill you?" Sebastian wants to know.

"He sent a hit man after me. You may have read about the dead body found in St James Park yesterday." She turns to Edmonde. "With your contacts you probably have an idea who the guy was?"

"Perhaps."

"Regardless," Eleanor continues, "it's obvious that papa is not in his right frame of mind."

"We all know what he's like," Edmonde argues.

"Edmonde's right, papa's always been unstable," Sebastian adds.

"But this is different," she tells her siblings, "yes, we've all felt his wrath over the years, but not like this. Not where he hires an assassin to kill me beats the shit out of you," indicating Edmonde, "and removes you," indicating Sebastian, "from your position as head of 'Atlas Shipping', and for no real reason, I mean you were doing wonders with that company Sebastian. Whatever else papa could fault about you, he can't fault the profits you were generating."

"He has his reasons," Sebastian continues to argue in favour of his father, but not as forceful as before.

"This is absurd." Edmonde looks from his sister to Zane. "This man is a Ravenscroft, he is the sworn enemy of our family, a fact we've had drilled into us since we could crawl and now you want to just turn the other cheek."

"I'm not your enemy," Zane adds.

"I beg to differ."

"For God's sake, Edmonde, look at what he did to your fucking face, who knows what he might do next time, perhaps even put a bullet in your head, and that goes for you too, Sebastian, do you really want to wait around until the axe falls. Let's be absolutely honest shall we, father's madness has grown and it is only getting worse. Hell, when I broached the subject with babushka, about his mental state, she wouldn't hear of it. But there's no denying it, no matter how much we all want to. Don't you think that the mere fact we're having this clandestine meeting proves how dire the situation has become. And make no mistake, the fact that we're here is tearing me up inside, it's killing me. Like you, I still love papa, regardless of the terrible things he has done to all of us, including Zane's father."

A long silence follows Eleanor's speech. Zane thought he would have to do most of the convincing, but Eleanor steps up to the plate, which as far as he was concerned was a good thing; they had to come to this decision on their own accord.

"This isn't right," Sebastian says.

"Why not?" Edmonde asks.

"Because it just isn't."

"You've got to come out of his shadow sometime little brother," Edmonde suggests to him.

"I won't hurt him...I can't do that...I won't do that," Sebastian tells them, stumbling over his words in the process.

"You won't have to," Eleanor reassures him.

Edmonde looks at Eleanor and Zane. "What are you proposing?"

Zane lays it out for them. "You call for an emergency meeting of the board of directors of Banque Villon and propose a motion to have your father removed on the grounds of mental incompetence. You file a caveat and argue that he is no longer mentally fit to run the company. Once he is removed, 'Ravenscroft Holdings' will then take over, Eleanor and you will still have a controlling interest, of course. As for the rest of the assets of the empire they'll be divided amongst the three of you. Meaning, that you, Sebastian, will have your shipping and logistic empire, and you, Edmonde, can continue unabated with your, shall we say, nefarious business pursuits."

"This is crazy, it'll never work," Sebastian decries the plan.

"Of course it will," Eleanor replies, "and best of all papa won't be hurt and will be able to get the proper help that he needs."

"I don't know, removing father is one thing, but amalgamating the business with the Ravenscrofts, that'll kill babushka for certain," Sebastian tells them earnestly.

"It won't be like that," Zane says, "your sister and I will be married; it'll be the joining of two great families, Banque Villon's future will be secured, and together we can set about achieving all that we've been striving for. We have to do this, we have to come together, here, and now, otherwise it can only end in the destruction of us all. And I don't want that, I know your sister doesn't, and I'm pretty sure you don't either. I know we all have childhood issues, and it must really stick in your gut about going against your father like this, but I don't see any other peaceful option, your father won't negotiate, you all know that, but I'm willing to."

"This is crazy," Sebastian comments.

"No - it's not," Eleanor tells him.

"Alright then, I'm in," Edmonde tells Zane.

"Are you mad?" Sebastian asks in disbelief.

"Why not," Edmonde fires back, "what's he ever done for us, he's done nothing but persecute us since we were born. No wonder our mother took her own life."

The mention of their dead mother prompts Sebastian to have a momentarily flashback to that night as a kid, when he came across his mother's bloodied body lying on the concrete, and the brief sight of his grandmother standing at the open window of his mother's room above.

"I'm just not happy about this," Sebastian tells them, keeping his memories to himself.

"Yes you are," Edmonde says, "you just won't admit it. I'm tired of the old fart and so are you. Time for a fucking sea change."

"Put a fucking stop to it," Christophe shouts at George Krusket, his old trusted lawyer.

"It's not that simple," Krusket interjects, "the court will undoubtedly order that you be psychiatrically assessed."

"Fucking bullshit," Christophe tells him.

"Of course, but having your son beat up wasn't the smartest legal move you could have chosen."

George Krusket was a seasoned veteran, a crusty and cagey old legal eagle who had risen to the rank of Queens Councillor. At 67 years of age, Krusket was a legend amongst the legal fraternity, who has an OBE, an order of the Bath, a member of the Garter, and a recent knight hood for good measure. His bulging waistline, coupled with his receding white hairline and tweed smoking jacket with elbow patches made him seem more like a loveable school professor, rather than one of the greatest and sharpest legal minds in the United Kingdom. He was the person the rich went to in time of trouble. He has been Christophe's attorney and personal friend for thirty something years.

"There's got to be something we can do?" Christophe asks while pacing up and down Krusket's office like a caged lion. The office was just a stone's throw away from Christophe's own digs in the Temple District. The room has a musty and smoky smell to it; thick legal tomes cover the old wooden shelves on the walls, while an old studded and burgundy coloured leather couch, that has bore the butts of many a worried client, takes up one corner.

A contemplative Krusket leans back in his leather chair. "If it were just one of your children, yes, but all three of them, now that's a different kettle of fish. Together it gives them the numbers to call into question your competence in running the business."

"My beloved children haven't enough brains between them to scratch their arses, let alone scheme up something as elaborate as this. No, we both know who is behind this." Christophe doesn't say his name; just the mere fact that Zane Ravenscroft has outwitted him was enough to get the blood boiling. But the thing that really irks him is the fact that the young upstart didn't outmanoeuvre him, rather his children sided with the enemy. "I should have drowned them all when they were born the ungrateful little shits."

"As your lawyer, I strongly advise you that those kinds of statements won't help your cause."

"Really, you don't say, I thought I might announce that in my next press statement," Christophe says with a great deal of sarcasm.

Krusket has heard it all before.

"You know, lawyers are great at given out fee advice."

"Preachers and lawyers are paid for zeal, but fools dish it out for nothing," Krusket counters."

"Don't play the Perry Mason with me, or wax whimsical; we're not in the court room yet and I'm not one of your brainless interns hanging on every word you say."

"Sorry, old habits."

"Die hard, like me," Christophe adds, "never forget that."

"Glad to see your wit is still intact."

"If not my marbles, huh?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you're probably thinking it."

"We're all a little crackers."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, okay; I'm not in the mood for our usual fun filled banter today."

"Look, the law is still on our side, they have to prove their case," Krusket advices, "and there are a few legal counter moves we can make, alleged conspiracy and malice being one of them. We can definitely forestall the proceeding for months, give you time to sort it out. Besides, it might not even get to court, no doubt you have still got many shall we say, favours outstanding." Krusket chooses his words carefully.

"The only problem is that the longer this continues, whether I win or not, the uncertainty hurts business, makes people more wary of doing deals. And there's too much at fucking stake now to let this slide. God I'm so pissed." Christophe's temper flares, a crazed look appears in his eyes, as he wonders just how a Ravenscroft got the better of him.

George Krusket watches his client with quiet concern. Christophe has always had a temper and George has been on the receiving end of it on several occasions, but of late even he has begun to notice a madness creeping into his friend's nature. And he wasn't the only one, many people in high positions of business and politics have also noticed, and quietly voiced their concerns. And this more than anything else worries Krusket the most, if this were to go before the bench, Krusket wasn't a hundred percent sure he could win it given the state of Christophe's mind; especially if the so called Villon madness was in play. There were a lot of very important people holding their collective breath at the moment.

"The best advice I can give you Christophe, is to patch things up with your children and get them to drop the whole thing before it goes any further."

"Yes, yes," Christophe agrees but adds, "but in order to do that I think I need to get rid of the cause, not the symptom."

This statement doesn't sit well with George Krusket and in fact makes him even more nervous at the mental state of his client.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

Masha wanders slowly around the greenhouse. Usually the sight of her plants, both poisonous and non lethal always made her feel good and always brought a smile to her face. But today she felt no cheer or comfort, for the cold hand of betrayal once more reaches out for her.

Only this time it came from within and not without.

"Damn them all," she whispers dejectedly.

Masha hasn't felt this much despair since the slaughter of her family.

After hearing the news she has tried desperately to contact Eleanor, Edmonde and Sebastian, to hopefully make them see reason, but all her grandchildren have refused to take her calls, instead they were laying low like the traitorous dogs they were, in Masha's opinion. She was angry and filled with a cold rage that has already sent several servants scurrying for cover.

For Masha it was as if history were repeating itself. First it was her beloved family who were betrayed and now the same thing was threatening to happen to her son, and by his own children, her grandchildren, that she sheltered and took care of after the loss of their mother. And this was how they repaid everything that has been done for them, by stabbing their father in the back. Masha couldn't believe that this was occurring again and that the unseen hands of the Ravenscrofts were behind it once more.

"Damn them all to hell," she cries out loud, clenching her fists, wanting greatly to lash out at something - anything. With no one around to hit, she kicks over a couple of nearby flower pots, sending the fauna and dirt scattering across the floor. But this does little to pacify her. She could feel the weight of all the Zhukovsky's bearing down upon her, centuries of family tradition calling out to her, pleading for her to not let the family torch fizzle out. But amongst all the voices and ghosts of the past, it was that of her own immediate family that wailed out the loudest. Her dead parents and sisters, their beautiful faces fresh in her mind even after the passing of so many years. And all they called out for was revenge and justice for the brutal acts that were committed against them. And the tragedy of it all is that her son, Christophe, was so close to finally achieving that goal of revenge.

"Curse them all to hell," she once more cries out.

Masha knew that if this current ploy succeeded, that there would be no vengeance against the Ravenscrofts, at least not by her son's hands, but if he is taken out of the picture and the sword is removed from his grasp, then who else is there to pick up the blade of vengeance. Her grandchildren have shown their true colours and she was too old to take up the mantle all by herself; it needs someone strong both mentally and physically.

Masha is force to face the harsh truth that there is no one else, that her son was all she has. Furthermore she knew that whatever happens, this conspiracy by Zane Ravenscroft, Eleanor, Edmonde and Sebastian Villon, must not succeed, no matter what the price, no matter what must be done. She has always faced adversity throughout her entire life and this was no different, she is a Zhukovsky, she adamantly tells herself, and that she isn't about to turn tail now; after all the Zhukovsky's were fighters and king makers and as her babushka always said: _"If the thunder is not loud, the peasant forgets to cross himself."_

_The solution_ , Masha tells herself, _calls for cunning_.

The Phoenix Club, London

While Masha strolls through the greenhouse, Christophe sat in the members' lounge of the exclusive Phoenix Club. The walls were festooned with memorabilia from its one hundred and forty year history.

An old institution.

There were items from all over the British Empire and Commonwealth; guns, swords, shields, spears, paintings, photos, sporting bric-a-brac as well as several animal heads including elephant tusks. The items were from as far away as Africa and Australia, to as close as Ireland and Scotland.

The whole room reeks of history and many a famous person has sat within this room; like the great explore Sir Richard Francis Burton; the famed writer Rudyard Kipling; the honoured general Horatio Kitchener; and of course the great Winston Churchill; who went toe to toe with Kitchener in this very room over a difference of opinion about the Dardanelles Campaign during World War I; even today the stoush still took on legendary proportions.

The club was unusually empty and in fact Christophe was one of only two members using the room at the moment, and the sound of the large grandfather clock ticking away was the only noise to be heard. Christophe didn't mind, he needs the quiet. He sits at his corner table staring intently down at the pieces on the chessboard before him, none of which have been moved and were still in their starting positions. However, in the eye within Christophe's mind, the game was several moves in and he was facing checkmate at the hands of his unseen opponent. He has been sitting here patiently for the last hour trying to win the game, but every move he attempts inevitably led to defeat.

Yet as he faces game over, Christophe knew that there was a way out, all he has to do was find it, he had studied the moves of all the great chess players, he knew their tactics and strategies, all he need do was apply them in the correct order. Then, finally, after many moves that always led to defeat, Christophe slowly begins to see a way out, although it was only from checkmate to mate, it was nonetheless an opening that could be exploited.

He just has to move the right pieces.

In his mind's eye his hand reaches out and takes the king from the board.

# CHAPTER 6

London

Zane reads the short handwritten note from Christophe Villon over breakfast:

" _Attention Zane Ravenscroft, I believe you will find the enclosed pages of great interest. Contact me when you want to meet, there are outstanding matters between us that need to be resolve."_

_Brief and to the point_ , Zane thinks while sipping his morning coffee and munching on his buttered croissant. He sat by the window in his hotel suite, outside the city of London looks grey and dreary beneath the overcast sky. Eleanor was still asleep in the bedroom; she has gotten little sleep since this whole business with her father began, and so Zane made sure that he was extra quiet this morning. He rather enjoys the notion of taking care of someone.

Zane tells himself that the letter is obviously a desperate ploy on the part of Christophe, an attempt to halt proceedings against him. In normal circumstance Zane would toss the letter away and let the bastard get what's coming.

However, the enclosed facsimile gave him reason to pause.

The document was obviously several decades old and contained information concerning shipments and payments between 'H.K. Hanke Chemical Co.' and 'Ravenscroft Holdings' as well as the names of several other companies, including transactions from Banque Villon; but the bulk of dealings on the pages were 'Ravenscroft Holdings'.

Zane immediately recognizes the name of the chemical company; 'H.K. Hanke' was one of the now notorious companies that supplied the chemical agents for the gas that was used in the Nazi death camps during the holocaust. This information, of course, sent sudden shivers down Zane's spine. He always knew that his family had some kind of dealings with the Nazis, but then again, so did so many other American companies, but he had no idea that they continued to deal with them after the U.S. got into the war, and certainly not 'H.K. Hanke'.

Zane suddenly felt like throwing up, the croissant quickly returns up his throat, causing Zane to push it back down. He reaches for the orange juice hoping that it will help settle his stomach – it doesn't. Zane has never looked into this period of the Ravenscroft family, his grandfather rarely spoke about what they did during the war, and if Zane was completely honest with himself, he didn't want to know what skeletons might be lurking in the closet. But now the closet has been opened and Zane would have to be the one to clean it out.

_Of course the document could be a forgery_ ; Zane tells himself, _lies made up by a frantic mad man who was facing defeat._ But if so, then why would Banque Villon's name be in the document. _To give it credence_ , he adds, but that idea just didn't feel right.

"The truth never does," he quietly tells himself.

Zane wasn't happy, he virtually has Christophe Villon on the ropes, ready for the knockout punch, and now it was possible that the little worm might squirm his way off of the hook. Zane wasn't about to let that happen without a struggle. The first thing he has to do is confirm that the information in the document is legit, until then he'll keep this to himself and not tell Eleanor, who he now hears stirring in the other room.

Zane sighs. "There's always another fight."

He folds up the letter and slips it into his dressing gown pocket just as a bleary eyed Eleanor enters the room.

"Morning sleepy head," Zane greets his lover warmly.

Eleanor plops down in the chair opposite and immediately reaches for the coffee pot.

"I feel like shit," she complains.

He smiles. "You look it."

"Thank you."

"Anytime."

Avalon, the Hamptons

Sophia was in the pool house when her son's phone call came. Steam rose off the heated water giving the impression that it was a hot spring; however the smell of chlorine said otherwise. The windows of the enclosure were steamed up from the warm water. Sophia has taken to swimming regularly in the last couple of years as she found it made her feel stronger and healthier. She was still greatly mourning the loss of Henry and Julius, but her inner strength and resolve that she has found were still strong.

She is no stranger to adversity.

Sophia felt that she could now cope with anything, including this telephone call; she has been through the fires of hell and has come out the other end, a little singed but not burnt.

"It was so long ago, Zane, and so many companies were doing business with Hitler, in the beginning he was not seen as evil, rather as an opportunity to make a lot of money," Sophia tells him.

"After all fascism started out as a legitimate movement for change, but like so many other causes it was corrupted and distorted into the monster it became," she reasons.

"Mother, I'm not interested in a history lesson," Zane replies.

"I'm sorry dear."

"It's alright, but what you're telling me is that we did do business with 'H.K. Hanke'." Zane's voice crackles out of the phone from the Savoy in London.

"I can't confirm that, I was never privileged to what the family did before I married your father. However, from what I know, I would say it was true."

"Damn."

"So what are your intentions now?" his mother asks her voice on edge.

"Deal with it," he tells her.

Sophia sits forward on the pool chair as if this would add weight to her words. "Listen very carefully to me Zane. You can't trust this man, he is pure evil, and he will stop at nothing to win no matter the cost, no matter who he has to hurt or kill. Don't ever forget that this man murdered your father."

The line goes deathly quiet for several drawn out seconds.

"I know mother. Don't worry; I'll work something out. This bloody war has to come to an end."

"Just be careful," she urges.

"I will. How are you doing?" he asks changing subject.

"I'm fine," she tells him truthfully, "don't worry about me, just worry about him."

"Okay, well I got to go, I'll call you later - bye."

The line goes dead. Sophia holds the receiver in her hand for several moments more before replacing it in its cradle. All she wants is for Christophe Villon to be removed from the scene, dead if possible, but she should have known that a cornered animal is always more dangerous to kill.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

Masha snips the dark purple flower from the Azalea bush.

_Such a pretty thing_ \- _so beautiful_ , she wonders just how many people have this plant in their garden unaware that all parts of it are poisonous, it can cause nausea, vomiting, depression, breathing difficulties, even coma, but rarely is it fatal - unless you know what you are doing.

Masha smiles.

She loves her gardening.

She stands in the old Victorian greenhouse tending to her beloved, beautiful and deadly fauna. Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 plays on the cassette player in the background.

Masha naturally adores all the Russian composers.

In fact Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky had played for her mother at her sixteenth birthday party. Her mother always spoke with great fondness of that day.

"Soon mama soon," she speaks out loud as the anger of what was done to her family again boils to the surface. But slowly, ever so slowly, she shuts her eyes and lets the music fill her senses while she remembers the glory of the Zhukovskys.

The smile returns.

She still has a smirk on her face when Christophe enters the nursery a few minutes later. He was breathing heavily, obviously he ran from the house. "The son-of-a-bitch has agreed to meet me," Christophe informs his mother between breaths.

"This is good news," she replies maliciously.

"Yes, yes - the fish took the bait."

"This must be dealt with a little more...delicately, my son," she says with a devilish sounding undertone to her words.

"Indeed it must. We'll only get the one shot at this," Christopher concurs.

"Not a bullet, knife, or even a bomb," she tells him nonchalantly as if rattling off mundane items on a grocery list. "No, we shall do this the old fashion way – the Russian way, a tried and proven method."

Christophe gives a wicked grin, his eyes managing to glint in the gloomy afternoon twilight. "Well then, I have much to plan, and I'll leave you to make...your provisions." Christophe turns and literally skips out of the greenhouse.

Masha laughs at the sight, overjoyed to see her son so happy once more. Then, finally, after getting her girlie giggling fit under control, she directs her attention upon her most poisons plants. Instantly she thinks of 'Foxglove', but dismisses it, as it can be easily detected.

She continues looking.

The art of poisoning your enemies has always been the number one weapon of choice for killing someone in Russia and the Zhukovsky's have been experts at it, their expertise was always highly sought after at the Russian Royal Court in the day. But even after their fall, Masha has continued the practise, just not as regularly as the good old days.

Masha's eyes finally settle upon a medium size shrub with green leaves and white flowers with a purple centre as well as small green fruit still growing, that looks something like a mango hanging on it – _'Cerbera odollom'_ – commonly known as the Suicide tree, Pong-pong or Othalanga.

"Perfect."

Masha knows all too well the properties of this member of the tree family. It is a species native to India and other parts of Southern Asia that yields a potent poison for suicide or murder. The kernels of _'Cerbera odollom'_ contain cerberin, a powerful alkaloid toxin. The poison blocks the calcium ion channels in the heart muscle thus causing a disruption of the heartbeat. And best of all the taste can be easily masked and cerberin is very difficult to detect in an autopsy.

Masha was very pleased with her choice. _'Cerbera odollom'_ mostly only grew in coastal or swampy areas and she had to take extra care in cultivating it in order for it to grow and thrive in this climate. It now seems all her effort was about to pay off. She would have to brew this a little differently to outfox the young Ravenscroft, but she knew how to do that.

As Tchaikovsky's music reaches its dramatic climax, Masha's hands reach out and begin picking several small kernels.

She is like the wicked queen about to poison the princess.

La Restaurant Gaston, London, Thursday Evening

Christophe watches with quiet glee as the fly enters the den of the spider.

"Come into my lair...," he whispers.

The fly is of course Zane Ravenscroft who has just entered the French restaurant, La Gaston, the place he is to meet the spider.

It was just after eight at night at the famed eatery renowned for its gastronomic delights and so was over flowing with patrons. One of the reasons for the meeting to take place was that it was held in a public venue, so each would feel safe; but of course there was another reason that Christophe chose this location.

Before the night was over Christophe intended to poison Zane and watch him die.

The decor was done in the style of the French renaissance, with wonderful reproductions of some of the great paintings from that time; 'The Coronation of Marie de Medici' by Ruben; 'Lady in the Bath' by Francois Clout; 'Diane the Huntress' by the School of Fontainebleau; and 'Athena Vanishing a Centaur' by Botticelli. It was as if a tiny section of the Louvre has been picked up and transplanted here. The colour scheme was a tasteful blend of red, white and gold trimmings, tied back curtains with tassels, in the archways, with each table adorned by a small flower arrangement and silver candlesticks. The silverware so polished that you could do your hair in the reflection. The whole premise was carpeted and the tables were arranged in a circular pattern and at the centre of this arrangement sat the spider.

Christophe is full of confidence as the young waiter, Bertram, shows Zane over to their table. The plan was simple, at the appropriate time, Bertram would pour champagne into two frosted glasses, of which one of those glasses was laced with Masha's deadly concoction, a near invisible layer of deadly toxin hidden by the frosted glass; an odourless poison that will mix perfectly with the champagne, bringing on a fatal heart attack.

"...Said the spider to the fly," Christophe finishes.

Christophe taps his bony fingers against one another, beneath his chin, like the legs of a spider walking. He was not only confident but reassured that all the cards were stacked in his favour. He owns the restaurant, through a subsidiary company, a little fact that no one knew, not even his beloved children, also the manager won't say anything as he is too far into debt, also the waiter, Bertram, who has been sent from an agency, has been very well paid to hand Zane the correct glass. Christophe would have liked Joey Gonza to have been present, sitting at one of the tables, but he was lying in the morgue and wouldn't be attending.

_Oh well_ \- Christophe tells himself as he stands to greet Zane - _you can't have everything_.

"Good to see you," Christophe says with an air confidence, holding out his hand.

Zane was feeling anything but confidant. All he wanted was for this meeting to be over and done with as speedily as possible.

"Yes," Zane answers with abruptness, refusing the proffered hand.

"As you wish," Christophe says unfazed by this rebut, "please, be seated, we can at least give the appearance that we don't want to rip each other's throats out."

Zane follows Christophe's lead and sits down.

"Would you like a drink, or an appetizer?" Christophe enquires politely.

"Not especially."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine."

"We'll call you when we're ready," Christophe tells Bertram. The young waiter nods and moves off.

Christophe and Zane wearily eye one another.

"I don't think you'll make public those documents," Zane opens with a volley, "your family's reputation would also be tarnished and there could be some form of legal proceedings levelled against Banque Villon."

"Straight to the point, hey Zane, no beating around the bush, I have to say I like that quality in a person," Christophe tells him in a friendly manner that really irks Zane to no end.

"Let's get one thing straight, I don't give a shit whether you like me or not, I'm not here for pleasantries. You murdered my father you son-of-a-bitch and don't think I don't know it." The anger in Zane's eyes was clearly visible but the tone of his voice was not raised. He wasn't stupid, he might want to tear this man in front of him from limb to limb but he wouldn't give the many witnesses around them any ammunition that could be used against him.

"And you fucked my daughter," Christophe returns fire, "not quite an eye for an eye but still a deadly stroke nonetheless."

The mention of Eleanor's name gives Zane pause. It was hard for him to believe that this creature in front of him was the father of the woman he loves, and it was even harder for him to see in him exactly what she saw that wanted him to not be harmed. After all, this was the man who killed his father, tried to kill his daughter, and then there was Zane's motor car accident all those years ago, in which only Zane suspected that it was anything other than a tragic accident. He suddenly wonders whether this man before him was behind that incident as well.

_And here I am sitting down to dinner with him_ , Zane thinks, he contemplates getting up and just leaving. The only thing that keeps him seated is Eleanor, even though she practically begged him not to come here tonight, he has to try and resolve the outstanding issues before it really was beyond the point of no return.

"You would like nothing more than to see me dead, wouldn't you?" Christophe's blunt question brings Zane's thoughts back to the here and now.

Zane thinks on how he should respond to this question before answering. "I can't say that the thought hasn't crossed my mind."

"You don't have the instinct boy," Christophe informs him, "you're not a killer, and I see no trace of it in you or upon you. But you have an inner strength, a strong will that much is obvious. But that's not enough if you truly want to rule the roost. You need to be a killer; you need to be willing to get the job done, no matter the cost, and someone must always take responsibility for achieving the desired outcome."

"You shouldn't under estimate me."

"I don't," Christophe readily agrees, "you've proven how shrewd you are. But you're no killer and that's a fault in your character that you need to work on."

"I'll take it under advisement."

"You do that."

"Now, if the small talk is over can we get down to business?"

"If you like."

"I like."

"First we will sup and quench our thirst," Christophe says waving for the waiter.

"I'm not hungry," Zane tells him.

Christophe stares intently at his enemy. "Stay or leave, I don't care, but if you continue this current course of action against me, that you and my loyal children, have conspired amongst yourselves, then know that I will make those documents public, front page headlines, and I won't give a shit about the collateral damage suffered to the Villons."

"A cornered animal is more dangerous and you know what I'm capable of, Zane, so believe me when I tell you that I have nothing left to lose if you succeed in your endeavour to oust me and so I won't give a rat's arse if I bring us all down in flames. Needs must when the Devil drives."

"Talk of the Devil and he will appear," Zane adds.

"Indeed he will."

Christophe's unsettling eyes never waiver from Zane during the entire speech and in that look Zane realises that Christophe Villon is not just mad as a hatter, but psychotic and deranged, and that he will do exactly what he threatens. Zane had hoped to be dealing with a sane person, and the fact that he wasn't changed the field of play. In fencing, Zane knew the moves and strokes to be used in disarming and taking down a skilled opponent, but if that challenger was unpredictable and willing to risk all or nothing, then a different approach was needed as the standard techniques and rules didn't apply.

Christophe watches Zane's reaction keenly, although there was no outward indication, Christophe could tell that his guest was indecisive, unsure, and hesitant at how to deal with a madman. Of course, Christophe, being the cunning creature he is, over emphasised the craziness in his words, knowing that this would put his foe off guard, although if it came to it Christophe was willing to do exactly what he said, but he knew it would never get that far.

Christophe decides that it was time to throw the dog a bone. "Of course, if you stay, then I'm sure we can reach an agreement, a resolution to our differences that will be beneficial to both of our families as well as you and Eleanor."

The mention of Eleanor's name in this context piques Zane's interest. The only reason he was still sitting here was his promise to her that he would find a solution to their problems so that they could have a life together. Zane believes that Eleanor was right when she said that her father was sick and needed professional help.

And so Zane stays for dinner.

Christophe laughs inwardly, he has the fish on the hook, now he just has to reel it in and club it over the head. "Excellent," Christophe says to Zane as he turns to the waiter, Bertram, who has been standing patiently by, to give him his order.

Although he has been well paid and knew what to do, Bertram is still nervous throughout the meal, knowing full well the dire consequences that would befall him if he fails, so he keeps his nerve.

And brings them their dinner.

First came the appetiser: Baked Honey Brie, the cooked brie is garnished with honey and sliced almonds over the surface making it a delicious blend of sweet, salty, and earthy flavours all wrapped up into one elegant dish. Next came the entree: _Soupe au Potiron_ , a wondrous pumpkin and potato soup seasoned with salt and pepper, cream and served with plenty of garlic croutons. This is then followed by the main course: _Chicken a la Diable_ , a delectable spicy devilled chicken breaded and then fried in butter producing an amazing taste explosion in the mouth. And it is during this course that Bertram places the Dom Perignon in the ice bucket with two chilled long stemmed glasses, including the one with the poison upon it.

Throughout the scrumptious meal Zane has been sticking to water, wanting to make sure that he has his wits about him the whole time.

But when the dessert arrives: _Crème Caramel_ , a very rich and tasty custard with a layer of soft caramel on top, Zane finds himself wanting something stronger than H2O. He has always had a penchant for fine food and dining, that stemmed from his mother taking him to all those fancy restaurants when just a boy, and on top of everything else, Dom Perignon was his favourite of all the sparkling wines.

The whole meal was a culinary delight and although there was not much talking between the two diners, but a lot of antagonism and resentment, neither could complain about the food. At first Zane was sure he wouldn't be able to eat a bite, the sheer thought of dining with such an abomination as Christophe Villon, who he just wants to throttle, made him sick to the stomach, but as the myriad of astronomical delights touched his tongue he changes his mind. His stomach began to relish the fuel being shovelled into it.

As the meal progressed Zane finds himself relaxing, letting his guard down. He knew that it was the food and he also knew that if he wasn't careful he'd be needing to take a nap next, something a good meal always made him do.

Finally the macabre meal was over.

"Now, that hit the spot," Christophe announces patting his stomach with delight.

"Whatever," Zane says dismissing Christophe's pleasure, "now can we finalise this whole evening."

"My proposal is simple," Christophe begins, "call off the dogs and I am willing to put an end to the animosity between our two houses."

"That's it?" Zane questions.

"Moreover, as a gesture of good will, I will no longer oppose marriage between you and my daughter. You two will be able to live happily ever after, with my blessing," Christophe adds knowing that this would sweeten the pie for Zane and further put him off guard.

"And what about Edmonde and Sebastian, what will you do with them?"

"Oh, they can go back to what they were doing. I have always believed in letting bygones be bygones."

Zane decides to push Christophe, to see how genuine he really is. "I would require a stake in Banque Villon."

"What!" Christophe says in disbelief. "Out of the question, it'll be a cold day in hell when that happens." Christophe's face goes white with rage. "Utterly preposterous."

"Why not? I need collateral, it's just good business."

"What, my only daughter is not enough for you?"

"Oh yes, she is more than enough," Zane assures him, "however what you say are just words, empty promises that can easily be broken."

"I give you my word," Christophe tells him as if this were enough.

"No offence, but I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you. However, if you truly are genuine about ending the hostilities between us then this is a perfect opportunity to prove that."

"To finally put aside our differences for the greater good is that it." Christophe says with a splash of sarcasm.

"And why not? Surely there are better fish to fry."

Christophe falls silent.

Zane waits patiently.

Although Christophe's face projects an image of abhorrence at such an outrageous suggestion, inwardly he was jumping for joy. It was obvious that Zane brought his act of indignation at such a proposal, after all Christophe has always thought he would make a good actor and there was no doubt that he was given an award winning performance tonight.

"Agreed," he answers despondently.

Zane is caught off guard but recovers quickly. "Seriously?"

"Despite what you think I'm not a complete nutter. I do know when I've lost. You've outplayed me. You found a loophole and you exploited it, even before you came here tonight I knew I had lost."

"Those documents were the final bullet in my barrel and while I would love nothing more than to make them public and thus crucify your whole fucking family and everything it's stands for publically. But I'm no fool. So yes, I'll give you a stake in my bank and my daughter and I'll curse you every day for the rest of my stinking life. Now, do we have a deal?"

Christophe's performance was flawless and to perfection.

"Then I agree," Zane informs him, "now, how about we drink on it?"

Christophe almost falls off his chair. His plan has worked even better than he thought. Instead of him offering the toast, Zane has suggested it. It was all Christophe could do to stop himself from jumping up and down.

"Waiter," Zane calls out to Bertram, indicating for him to open the champagne.

Bertram does as he is directed. He pops open the cork and pours the sparkling nectar into the two glasses, including the one laced with poison.

He hands them both a glass and moves off.

Christophe and Zane look at one another.

"To your health," Zane offers.

"Thank you and might I say well played," Christophe replies.

The two men raise their glasses and drink.

The poison works almost instantly.

Christophe's face contorts; he clutches his chest. The sommelier has double-crossed him.

Zane smiles in triumphant. "I tripled the amount you were going to pay him."

Shock registers on Christophe's faces. He seeks out Bertram and espies him leaving the restaurant. He raises an arm but slumps forward onto the table. Barely holding himself up, Christophe eyes the smug looking Zane across the table.

Shock turns to disbelief.

"Die you son-of-a-bitch," Zane tells him in a sotto voice.

Then in those few moments before death Christophe recognizes the expression on Zane's face: it is the very same look he himself displayed as he killed Olivier. And so, in his dying seconds, fate reveals to him that Zane is his illegitimate son.

" _Someday you will see your death in your son's eyes."_ The prophetic words of his father echo mockingly in his head as the world around him goes black. But in his final breath Christophe manages to say to his bastard son. "Make sure...you're worthy...of the throne you are about...to claim..."

These are of course the exact same final words Christophe's father, Olivier, uttered to him.

Then with a final death rattle Christophe Villon slumps onto the table.

A stupefied expression frozen upon his face.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor England

Masha sits in her favourite rocking chair by the roaring fire in one of the several lounging areas within the mansion. There are no lights on and the room is only illuminated by the flickering flames of the fireplace. Masha has been sitting in the room for the last couple of hours awaiting the phone call from her son telling her that the deed is done. That the Zhukovsky's have been avenged.

_Glory days_.

The House of Ravenscroft would finally come to an end.

Her eyes move to the clock on the mantle: it is almost midnight – the witching hour.

Masha smiles feeling warm and contented.

Her mind goes back to the time when Christophe was but a boy and how she use to tell him stories late at night by the light of the fireplace. How he would cuddle up to her for comfort and how she would wrap her arms lovingly around him whispering into his ear that everything was going to be alright. These were some of her fondest memories.

With the demise of her family, her son, Christophe, has been the only person she has truly loved. He was everything to her. No matter the horrible things he had done, for she has taught him how to commit those acts, as she herself has done. He had killed for her and she for him and the bond between them was like none other between mother and son. She carried him, nurtured him, taught him, and set him lose on those that would do them harm. And not once has she ever been disappointed by him.

Christophe is everything Masha needed in a son, strength, intelligence, cunning, and the balls to make the hard decisions.

She couldn't be any more prouder than how she felt at this exact moment.

Her son has finally achieved what no other Villon could.

Five minutes later the telephone rang.

Masha stands, crosses to the side table and picks up.

A minute later when she hangs up the receiver, her whole world comes crashing down.

# CHAPTER 7

London

Two weeks after his demise Christophe Villon's remains were cremated and his ashes were interned at the Villon Mausoleum just outside of Paris, not as grand as the Ravenscrofts but a stunning old moss covered structure nonetheless. The plaque upon his grave was simple: Christophe 1932 -1984. It is all Masha wants, just the single name of her dead son, the name of a fallen titan.

No one came to his funeral, not even his children, Masha saw to that, they were traitors and as dead to her as her beloved son was. There would be no carrion eaters hovering around him, saying how sorry they were for his loss, no, Masha and Masha alone has seen to the final rites. And she didn't want anyone sticking their noses in.

To the outside world Christophe Villon had died of a heart attack, just as the coronary's report indicated.

It came as no surprise to anyone, if anything they were amazed that it hadn't happen sooner. Masha knew there were many that silently welcomed the news, and even those who were allies weren't going to share too many tears over the death. Only Masha and Zane Ravenscroft knew the truth. The young pup outfoxed them and was now poised to claim the prize.

A pungent truth.

Masha is still very bitter as she left the law office of George Krusket two days after returning from France. She quickly learned the full extent of the swift redistribution of the Villon Empire. Edmonde and Sebastian were in the process of amalgamating their respective companies with 'Ravenscroft Holdings' which will now have the controlling interest in Banque Villon as approved by Eleanor and her brothers. Krusket did reassure Masha that her personal fortune remains secure and untouchable; but this is of little solace to her. Her son is dead and her intended revenge against the Ravenscrofts has been cruelly thwarted.

Amidst all the emotions, numbness fills Masha's being.

She welcomes it.

As far as she is concerned her life is over.

After leaving the Temple District Masha makes her way slowly along the Thames. The bleakness of the day was a mirror image of her soul. She decides never to return to Grimstone Manor or England for that matter. Over the years she has quietly been making preparations for an event such as this; in fact for the last couple of years she has been cultivating her contacts back in Russia and was assured that the Soviet Union was coming to an end, and so Masha Villon-Zhukovsky has decided to return to the motherland. She already purchased a Dacca just outside of St. Petersburg which she has been quietly renovating for the last twelve months and it was now ready to be occupied.

Masha doesn't know how long she has left to live, she still felt healthy and quite strong, her treatments have extended her lifespan beyond the norm, but even she would come to an end some day and when that day arrived all she wanted was to be buried in the same earth as her family. Knowing in her heart that when she finally sees them again, in the hereafter, her head bowed in shame, she will have to tell them of her failure to avenge them, and beg for their forgiveness.

It was a day she was not looking forward to.

But what else was there to do, her plans have come to naught.

"Excuse me, Mrs Villon," a soft feminine voice reaches her cold ears.

Masha turns from where she has been looking out at the dirty water of the Thames and beholds Rayisa, the Russian ambassador's young and beautiful daughter, who is heavily pregnant.

"Forgive me, but I didn't know where else to go," Rayisa says her eyes red and dry from tears.

Masha instantly recognises her from the performance of Swan Lake she attended with Christophe.

"Of course, but tell me what is wrong?"

Rayisa tells her that in disgrace at her pregnancy her family has cast her out not wanting anything more to do with her, so in desperation she has come to seek help from Masha because the unborn child's father is Christophe.

At first surprised and shocked Masha is soon delighted by the revelation, by this new and unexpected opportunity.

"My dear child," Masha says holding open her arms. Rayisa goes to her and is embraced. "Everything is going to be just fine," she reassures her.

"I am about to take up residence once more in St. Petersburg and I am only too willing to provide a home there for my grandson and her mother."

"Oh thank you," Rayisa says choking back the tears.

"It's alright...we shall both share tears together."

And so those walking by at that time behold two lonely figures from different worlds holding one another on the banks of the Thames crying upon the others shoulder.

The Zhukovsky's were not finished yet.

Avalon, the Hamptons March 28th

A few weeks later in a small and private ceremony in the Ravenscroft Chapel, at Avalon, Zane Ravenscroft and Eleanor Villon were joined in holy matrimony.

The few people present behold a beautiful, moving and heartfelt ceremony as the once warring Houses of Villon and Ravenscroft were united forever. Zane's aunties, Rosemary and Margaret cry the most. Even Eleanor's brothers, Edmonde and Sebastian, felt a tug or two upon their heartstrings. But the person who watches the whole proceeding with the keenest interest was Sophia. She observes two people deeply in love taking the most important vows a man and a woman could ever do.

She knows that this union will make her family strong and put them in the best position to claim the ultimate prize of power. They were well on the way to being triumphant and yet as the priest pronounces Zane and Eleanor Ravenscroft husband and wife, Sophia suddenly feels a dreadful fear in the pit of her stomach and a strong sensation of guilt.

"May God forgive me," she whispers, she has vowed to keep secret, for the sake of the family, the fact that Zane and Eleanor are brother and sister.

The reception that takes place a week after the wedding was anything but small. Avalon hadn't seen the like in a long time. Several marquees were set up, the old ballroom was dusted off and opened up and the guest list numbered in the hundreds. Those that were invited were a diverse and cross pollination of individuals from the worlds of finance, including the heads of the world's central banks, politics, and religion as well as a few Hollywood and musical celebrities. Bishops rubbed elbows with presidents of America and European countries, both past and present along with prime ministers, a few sheiks and a royal prince or two.

They have all come to celebrate the joining of the Houses of Ravenscroft and Villon in what everyone saw as the beginning of a new era, a new Camelot, in which a king has taken a powerful queen to help him rule. Many genuinely believe that the hostilities that have been taking place for the last sixty odd years were finally over, while others were more pessimistic agreeing to reserve judgement knowing that time will tell the tale. But whatever the feelings were the overall sense of joy was the overriding factor and it is one hell of a party that lasts an entire weekend.

Zane and Eleanor both enjoy the event, and to see his new wife smiling brought great pleasure to Zane. He has thrown this party for her, more than any other reason, as she still felt sad at the events surrounding her father. Zane hadn't told what really happened; how her father tried to poison him and how Zane turned the tables' on the whole nefarious plot; instead he perpetuated the notion that Christophe Villon died of natural causes, a heart attack.

This is true from a certain point of view. Zane felt bad about keeping the truth from Eleanor but he decides that it was for the best as it could only cause more heartache and pain to her, and as far as Zane was concerned his new bride has already suffered enough.

The party turns out to be the social event of the year.

Always to be remembered.

Never forgotten.

St. Petersburg, Russia

A few weeks after the marriage of Zane and Eleanor, in an incense filled church on a bright and sunny day, a handful of distinguished guests witness the service at which Rayisa's son – in the arms of his veiled grandmother, Masha – is christened Grozny _(Typhoon_ ) Zhukovsky by the long grey beared Coptic Priest, Father Alexi Andropov.

The ceremony is low key with no fanfare.

Yet as the priest pours the blessed oil over the baby's brow Masha whispers softly into the tot's ear the following words: "Your destiny will be to avenge the wrongs done to the Zhukovsky and Villon families; and, like a tornado you will decimate the cursed House of Ravenscroft."

The baby looks up at the sound of his babushka's words with a smile full of unconditional love, completely innocent and unaware of the future havoc he is to wrought.

St. Michael's Private Hospital, New York State

Several months later a concerned Zane enters a waiting room at the private hospital where his wife, Eleanor, has just prematurely given birth. The only other person in the clinical, sterile and uninviting room is Sophia, who has a sombre expression upon her face.

"I came as soon as I could," Zane says out of breath, "how is she, how is the baby?"

"Son, I have some very bad news for you," his mother grimly tells him.

"What?"

Sophia shakes her head; there is just no right way to tell him this. "The baby was stillborn."

"No, that cannot be," Zane says in distress.

"The child was six weeks premature, son, there was nothing the doctor's could do."

"Shit."

"There's more and it won't be easy for you to hear it."

Fear grips Zane. "Eleanor isn't..." he trails off, unable to complete the question.

"No, Eleanor is alive and she will be alright, but there were complications," Sophia informs her son, who breathes an audible sigh of relief at the news that Eleanor was still alive. But that was about to change.

"What sort of complications?"

"The obstetrician said it was a most problematic birth and that Eleanor's life was in danger as there was a lot of internal bleeding and damage to the womb, so they had to perform a hysterectomy."

"What?"

"It was the only option; there was nothing else they could do," Sophia adds as if this news would make any difference.

It doesn't.

Zane doesn't know what to feel. A multitude of emotions course through him; there is sadness at the loss of his unborn child; joy that Eleanor is still alive; and shock and even anger at the fact that they will not be able to have any more children.

"Zane, I'm sorry."

"Why?" he asks.

"Why what?"

"Why was the baby stillborn, why was there so much damage done? I mean, the pregnancy was going fine. What caused this?" Zane stares at his mother hoping she can supply an explanation.

"These things just happen; there is no rhyme or reason for it - it's part of life." Sophia's words do little to ally her son's anger. She realises that she must choose her next words very carefully.

Even though Sophia knows full well why this tragedy occurred, because Zane and Eleanor were brother and sister, she could never tell him that, no one must ever know the truth. She knows that she can shut up any doctor who may become too nosey, money could buy silence, but Zane has to be handled differently.

"Listen to me son, listen to me very carefully," Sophia begins, looking earnestly into Zane's eyes, "you and Eleanor will have children, I promise, just leave it to me, I'll take care of everything. But for now your wife is hurting and she will be grieving greatly for what has befallen you both, she will need you; she will need your strength and love like never before. You must be strong for both of you, and you will have to put her needs and wants ahead of your own. Something I know you can do because you have such capability in you to achieve anything you set your mind to. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"But..." Zane wants to say more but is hushed by Sophia.

"No buts - no doubts."

Zane looks to his mother.

"You and Eleanor can still have a wonderful life together," she continues, "the both of you can still mould the future the way you want it to be. I know what you two must be feeling, believe me I know," she says adding extra emphasis to her words.

Zane slowly nods his head. "I do understand what you're saying."

Sophia pulls her son close and kisses him on the top of his head. "Now go to her Zane and love her."

"I will." He turns and exits the room.

Once he is gone Sophia lets out one long breath that she has been holding in, pleased about how she handled the situation. Her conviction was still strong, her will has not waivered an inch; she would do and say anything to protect the family. And although many might question her motives, there is no doubt in her mind that what she did tonight stems from a mother's love not to see her child hurt.

"They will be fine, time heals all wounds," she tells herself from experience.

Sophia next begins putting her mind towards the children she must acquire for her son and daughter, and to insure the continuation of the Ravenscroft bloodline.

_Two baby boys and a girl will suffice_ – she surmises.

"It shall be done."

While Sophia hatches her future plans, Zane sits by Eleanor's hospital bed for the entire night. She floats in and out of consciousness from the heavy medication that has been administered to her. But when she did open her eyes she always found Zane holding her hand and comforting her with his loving words: "I'm here"..."Everything will be alright"..."I love you".

It was a long and tiring night for both of them.

Zane was left with his own thoughts and doubts for long periods of time and that was never a good thing. Yet whenever he found his thoughts too much to handle he would simply look at Eleanor's sleeping face and everything would be well again.

As for Eleanor, her drug induced sleep was filled with demons and night terrors lurking in the dark recesses of her mind. Her only consolation was the touch and reassuring words of her husband that would frighten away the denizens that lived in her dreamscape.

But on this night none of that mattered for they were husband and wife, man and woman, two souls who loved one another deeply and profoundly, and nothing else mattered. But there were still many more days and nights to come in their lives, and many more triumphs, tragedies and battles.

And none of them could foresee the future events that were to unfold.

" _Having the support of Hera, Hades and Poseidon, Zeus led Kronos to drink from a poisoned chalice. They then carved up among them the spoils of the world. Zeus was granted the sky, Poseidon the sea, and Hades the underworld...the earth remaining a common realm. And in heaven, did Zeus make Hera his queen and consort._

(From the myths of Ancient Greece)

## CHAPTER 8

"The Birth of the Gods"

" _With the birth of the gods, came the rule of Zeus who, having claimed the throne, set up his temple on Mount Olympus, from where he reigned and hurled his thunderbolts._

(From the myths of Ancient Greece)

The new Ravenscroft Tower, New York City, Present Day

Zane looks out the window of his office at Wall Street with mixed emotions. The Ravenscroft bloodline has been well secured. Using anonymous surrogate mothers, Zane has fathered three children; Samantha _(Athena)_ ; Damon _(Dionysus)_ ; and Bobby _(Apollo)_ ; and over the last thirty years 'Ravenscroft Holdings' has gone from strength to strength, but still Zane Ravenscroft's life was far from perfect. He has made many sacrifices, many concerning his own beliefs and the well being of his own soul.

For all the success of the last few decades it all went hand in hand with much turmoil and travail.

The new offices of 'Ravenscroft Holdings' far outstripped the old in style, look, architecture and technology. While not as tall as the old building it still consisted of 30 floors, of which 'Ravenscroft Holdings' occupied the top five and was one of the most energy efficient and green buildings in the city with a state-of-the-art security system that the paid experts had yet to crack. The tower has also become a tourist attraction mainly due to the extensive collection of paintings and sculptures in the ground floor of the Henry Ravenscroft art gallery; who's collected pieces almost, and in some cases actually did rival many of the world famous galleries.

As for Zane's office, it was befitting of a master of the universe, with the eight foot long glass desk, Italian leather lounge suite, wall TV that was nine feet wide, with multiple window screens depicting stock numbers, news and time zones from around the world, with instant access to the internet via the touch screen.

Then there was the silver embossed map of the world on the opposite wall with its fibre optical lights depicting the various capital cities of the globe. Adding to the grandeur were the Renoir, Rembrandt and Picasso paintings, two of which – "A Countryside" and "Self Portrait" - have never been seen by the public and were virtually unknown to all but a few experts. The final bit of opulence was of course the bedroom, for those late night business and personal sessions and the ensuite bathroom which contained not only a toilet that washed your backside but also a shower with all the modern cons including a smaller version of the TV in the main office.

"So, what do you want to do?" Nelson del Fugeo _(Prometheus)_ asks of his boss.

Nelson is Zane's personal assistant and adviser, a 37 year old brilliant and charismatic individual, with brown smouldering eyes and black hair who simply oozed sex appeal.

Born of impoverished Latino parents, Nelson was already an accomplished junior executive when he joined the staff at the head office of 'Ravenscroft Holdings'. His rise within the company was meteoric and it was no surprise that within five years he was appointed Zane's personal assistant. Recommended by certain factions inside the Illumnati, Nelson was greatly trusted and had become privy to the aims of the hidden cabal.

"This bears careful consideration," Zane informs him in a clinical and calculating tone of voice as he turns away from the window.

Zane has steered this company into the heart of the financial and corporate world, it now sat at the centre of the web of global finance entangling itself in all the major international companies and central banks in one form or another, but never directly, always through intermediaries, shelf companies and of course loans. Zane truly has come to admire the power of the banking industry – _after all_ , he thinks, _no other business can get away with loaning money that didn't exist and then charging interest on it._ The ponzey schemes that the banks have pulled off over the last few years on the public was staggering, derivates based on derivates based on derivates that to begin with were based on thin air. _Fiction_ – as he likes to think of it. Just the sheer thought of how much money they have accumulated in recent years is almost enough to give Zane a hard on.

"Do we know what evidence they have?"

"Not completely, I'm hoping to have full details tomorrow from the FBI," Nelson informs his boss.

"As soon as you know I want a complete breakdown on what exactly they have on my brother-in-law."

"No worries," Nelson tells him obediently, making notes on his tablet.

Zane and his assistant are referring to the FBI investigation into Edmonde Villon and his suspected involvement in the narcotics trade – _suspected huh_ – Zane almost shouts out loud.

"How the hell did this investigation get so far?"

Nelson elaborates. "A change in personnel, certain things slip through the cracks, gets past our people; you know all too well how it goes. But I don't think it's something we have to worry about; I feel that your brother-in-law will just have to ride this one out."

"Still, I think it's time we destroyed all potential incriminating financial records that link 'Ravenscroft Holdings' with Edmonde's business interests," Zane adds.

"Completely?" Nelson enquires.

There is a moment's pause.

"If I see as much as a smudge there will be hell to pay," Zane abruptly informs Nelson, his words leaving no room for argument.

"As you wish," Nelson agrees without batting an eyelid. He was a cool, calm and collective individual, on the outside, a hard man to read in any given situation, yet on the inside, especially of late, was another story all together.

"Okay, is there anything else?"

"No."

"Good, and make sure you have those Morgan papers on my desk by noon tomorrow," Zane tells his assistant in an exigency manner.

Zane dismisses Nelson.

Nelson nods silently and exits.

After he has left the office Zane sits himself and his thoughts down at his desk.

Events were moving at a rapid pace in the world and the agenda was so close to being fulfilled now that any incident that put them in the spotlight would only be detrimental to 'The Work of Ages'.

Zane wasn't going to let that happen.

The collapse of the economies of the world have now paved the way for the possibility of creating a global treasury under the auspicious of the UN and the World Bank, an institution well in the hands of the Illumnati families so much so that Zane was president for a couple of years in the last decade, that would set the interest rates for entire countries; and with that, in no time, would come a new global currency, as country after country goes belly up and cries out for salvation.

It will be beautiful, Zane silently tells himself.

Of course there have been hold outs from some European, Middle Eastern and African countries who wish to retain their sovereignty against the globalists but they were slowly being taken out through civil unrest and war; the growing conflict in the Middle East was the perfect example of the military and industrial complex at work, there was always money to be made in war and it didn't matter who won in the end as all sides were funded by the financers. After all, a bank can't abide a country free from debt, self sufficient and living in peace – it just wasn't good for business – and war was always good for business.

And it was so easy to pit nation against nation.

Just go over to nation A, buy up the media, bribe some of the politicians and start saying that Nation B is coming to attack you, to take your women, because they're evil people who are going to destroy you because you worship the wrong God; after that you loan nation A money so they can build weapons and strike nation B first; nation A willingly takes the money and attacks nation B, prompting nation B to say "what the hell is this"; at which point the same banks that funded nation A go over to nation B and say "you're in trouble" – "nation A is coming to get you" – "better have some weapons to defend yourself" - and so the bank loans the money to nation B to get the weapons – at which point a war breaks out between nation A and B that is funded by the same people.

_So simple_.

Zane can't help but admire the simplicity of the scheme, even after the war is over both nations are devastated and in debt for generations, at which point the banks again step in to offer them more money to rebuild; adding even more to the debt which will take decades to pay off, Germany only finished paying for World War I in 2009, let alone World War II which they are still paying for. But the thought of using war to achieve what they wanted, always gave Zane pause, he has never liked the idea, he would always prefer to bring 'The Work of Ages' in through peaceful means.

But no matter how hard he tried to do this it always seems that the only way to achieve world government would not only be through economic warfare but also a bloody global war that stripped away humanity and left the people crying out for it to end – for something better. _Problem_ \- _reaction_ \- _solution_ – he tells himself – create the problem, get the reaction, and then offer the solution that you already had worked out to begin with in the first place.

Zane knew all too well that a global conflict was close at hand and that it has the potential to spill out from the Middle East, but he also knew that it wasn't inevitable; as far as he was concerned it was always a last resort. Although a few of the other Illumnati families were pushing hard for this – take out the Middle East nations – gain all the oil and gas resources – and then go to war with China and Russia; one big confrontation to bring everything about, just like the way his father, Henry Ravenscroft, envisioned it happening. But Zane wasn't his father and he has other ideas, although he had to sell many of them out over the years since he took down Christophe Villon.

War with Russia and China was the last thing they needed. Although the bloodline families have weathered the economic crisis fairly well, for all intense and purposes the systems of global collective security now lie in ruins and there really are no longer any international security guarantees.

The builders of the new world order have built a sand castle, and as such another global economic crisis could sink them all, add to the mix a global war and the balance of power could tip against them. With both Russia and China not playing ball anymore, both the world and 'The Work of Ages' were in a precarious position.

"Shit," Zane curses softly.

He knows that a new world order will not be created now without Russia and China's involvement. They could proceed without them but to achieve it will mean a global conflict and Zane only likes to bet on a sure thing.

Matters could easily get out of hand.

Zane knows they are so close to achieving the financial aim of the great work, despite the growing awareness amongst the population, an awakening that was proven to be a constant battle to keep in check, but once their plans are in place, Zane also knows that a world government will follow in time and that is something that was inevitable. And yet, as strange as it may seem, Zane has sometimes wondered if it was all worth it - the lies- the deceit - the hurt - the struggle; for in many ways it was a constant struggle and battle against this faction or that faction, or this 'ism or that 'ism, and making sure the family always came first. As head of the House of Ravenscroft Zane has always worn that crown to the best of his ability but being the _paterfamilias_ hasn't been easy as it has come with many burdens and sacrifices. _And for what_? he asks of himself, wealth – power; _how much does one need?_

In his inner most vault that contains his secret thoughts and desires, Zane would rather construct a new world order that is subject to international law and international agreements, refraining from all unilateral actions; in full respect of the sovereignty of other nations. In reality not to rely on the elite and their back-room dealings.

But rather on the will of the people. A radical view that would cause Zane many headaches if it became known amongst the Illumnati. Deep down in his heart Zane knows that a more conservative approach to introducing innovations into the social order was the way they should have gone. But now it is too late, the beast has been unleashed upon the world and he doubts that anyone can stop it - it must be fed.

Still, Zane wonders whether matters could be reversed.

The course altered.

_Changed_.

He doesn't know when such doubts began to set in, only that in recent times he has begun to question increasingly more the path he has taken, the path that his kind have helped set the world upon.

"Men of genius are admired; men of wealth are envied; men of power are feared; but only men of character are trusted." That's what his Aunt Margret has always tried to instil in him and Zane has tried to live up to those words and failed miserably on many occasions. To have such a creed in this business was impossible. How can anyone trust someone who made money off of others misery; he was part of an elite clique that was responsible, indirectly and directly, for atrocities perpetuated on the world.

And then of course he was a murderer.

He took the life of Christophe Villon, even though it was in self defence, and if he hadn't of acted then he wouldn't be here today, but still he couldn't help felling bad and regretful at his actions. Sometimes at night, when he closed his eyes, he would see the look of shock on Christophe's face as he died and hear his final words echo in the corners of his mind: "Make sure...you're worthy of the throne...you're about to claim".

Zane has tried to discern the true meaning of these words, believing that perhaps there was some secret message contained within them. But he has found none. And yet these words still haunted him and ever since he has wondered why Christophe Villon chose to say them to him.

"Fuck it," he mouths.

He stands and crosses to the bathroom to relieve himself. As he empties his bladder, as he feels the build up pressure flow away, he begins to feel better, his mind clearer. And yet as he flushes and turns to wash his hands he stops and takes a long hard look at himself in the mirrors reflection. At fifty-nine years of age Zane was still in good physical shape, his chest was still flat and hard, although there was some flab around the mid-drift but nothing to write home about, his gel back hair had a lot more grey streaks in it these days, but his face was still handsome and his strong, good looking features have never wavered.

All in all he has aged well.

Medically he was sound; physically he was fit, so much so that he could still fence and polo, and there was no doubt that he was destined to live many more years yet. _Then why do I feel discontent_? he asks himself, but he already knows the answer – _happiness_ \- that most simple of all pleasures in life that always seems so hard to capture and hold onto, was missing, somewhere along his sojourn Zane has lost that joy and hasn't been able to find it since.

This is the missing ingredient from his life now.

And he doubts that he will ever find it again.

## CHAPTER 9

Avalon, the Hamptons

Eleanor sits quietly in the west wing's main bedroom with her mother-in-law, Sophia Ravenscroft.

They are having afternoon tea and cake. Sophia, now 83 years of age, still retains fragments of her former beauty and regality, even her dressing gown reeks of her still being a fashion connoisseur, she has always been a class act and age hasn't changed matters. However the same can't be said about her mental state. Dementia that most vile of diseases that robs so many elderly of their senses and dignity struck Sophia like a jackhammer striking bitumen, like a thief in the night it stole away her mind. Her fall into this mental quagmire was quite rapid; although there were signs in her behaviour over the last couple of years it was only in the last six months that she really lost control of her mental faculties.

The best medical minds said there was nothing that could be done, there were some drugs that could help with the ramblings, but in the end it was just one of those illnesses like Parkinson where there is no cure. Sophia was provided with the best home care that money could buy; a nurse and attendant were always on hand twenty-four hours a day seven days a week, and her every need was catered for. And of course there was Eleanor, who has grown very close to Sophia over the years since her marriage to Zane.

Eleanor Ravenscroft was still a beauty at 56 years of age, her figure was still intact, although a little plump in parts, her face was as smooth and young looking as ever, thanks to a little nip and tuck here and there, but above all the intelligence and wit was still present behind her deep blue eyes.

"Would you like some more tea?" she asks topping up Sophia's cup knowing that she won't get a sensible reply.

"Yes, Henry, that would be lovely," Sophia's soft but crackly voice replies, her eyes staring off into nothingness, or perhaps places and times that only she could see.

Eleanor was heartbroken every time she saw how far her mother-in-law has fallen into the depths of her scattered and broken memories; to see this woman, who has been so strong, so feisty, and so full of life, a powerful matriarch of the Ravenscroft family for so long, descend into a kind of mental madness, at times brought Eleanor to tears. Especially since Sophia has become such a good friend and influence on her, a person that Eleanor could always go to with her problems, and in many ways Sophia took on the role of her long dead mother, and her estranged grandmother, a relationship that Eleanor embraced.

There were many kinds of dementia with many variations on what to call them and the main symptoms associated with Sophia's condition were much to do with a loss of sense, reality and time; meaning that she would recall events that happened a long time ago as if they occurred only yesterday, the same as with people who were also long gone, like her husband, Henry. It seems that Sophia was now forever locked in the past, forever wandering lost through the fog that was her memories. But even those seem to becoming less and less these days as Sophia begins to fall into longer and longer periods of silence. There were also many pictures on the wall, photos of Henry and Sophia, Zane, the grandchildren, more so than usual; a suggestion made by the doctors who said it would help Sophia with her memories as well as helping her not to lose her identity.

It is a chore but it is done out of love.

"You've still got some cake left, would you like me to help you with it?" Eleanor asks.

Knowing all too well that the arthritis in Sophia's hands made it difficult at times to pick up things. Her right hand was the worse, three of the fingers having curled up into the palm, and which could no longer be separated, and now the left hand was well on its way to achieving the same goal. Soon Sophia will not be able to use any of her fingers.

"Did I tell you how lovely you look today?" Eleanor says as Sophia takes the piece of cupcake without protest. "If the weather doesn't get too cold perhaps we can take a stroll later, would you like that, I know I would." Eleanor wipes the crumbs from Sophia's chin. "There that's better."

Eleanor puts the napkin down and lets out a soft sigh of sorrow at the loss of not only her anchor, in Sophia, but also the demise of her marriage. It was in fact Sophia who guided Eleanor through the murky waters of Zane's infidelities, and it was also her mother-in-law that encouraged both of them to stay together for the sake of the family. A notion that Eleanor still believes in just not as much as she once did, especially now that the children were all grown up and off living their own lives. And yet she still wonders exactly when it all went wrong. But she tries not to dwell on it these days. When she does it only stokes the anger and even hatred she now has for Zane.

"Eleanor," Sophia says in a clear sounding voice.

Eleanor, her head bowed in contemplation, doesn't take much notice. "Yes."

"It'll be alright."

Eleanor quickly looks up at Sophia only to be greeted by her absent minded stare. "Sophia ... Sophia," she queries, but to no avail.

Eleanor shakes her head despondently, wondering if she really heard anything at all.

How Eleanor wishes that she had Sophia's wise counsel now. For with everything that is going on she could sure use it.

Edmonde Villon stands impatiently in the main living room of Avalon. At 59 years of age, he still hates waiting around for people. Still slim in appearance, and attired in an expensive dark suit and red tie, with several gold rings on his fingers, to emphasis his value more so than just vanity, there was also now a hardness to Edmonde's looks, made more so by a three inch scar beneath his left eye, the result of having a glass smashed into his face, but that wasn't the only scars he bore, there were also two more on the right side of his stomach where he took two slugs from a .44 ten years ago, all courtesy of his dealings in the underworld. Edmond has risen to become the godfather of godfathers; there was no more powerful crime lord in the western world than Edmonde Villon.

"What are you doing here?" Eleanor says in greeting with no real pleasure.

"Nice to see you to sis," he replies. "I'm just here to see your loving husband," he adds sarcastically.

"Go to hell," Eleanor suggests. She pours herself a strong martini, heavy on the gin and low on the vermouth and of course her standard two olives on a toothpick.

"So, how are you?" Edmonde asks genuinely.

Eleanor knocks back her martini. "Shouldn't you be more concerned about yourself, I hear you're in some trouble and no doubt you have come begging my husband for help."

Edmonde shakes his head in exasperation at his sister. "I'm not your enemy Eleanor, I never have been. I take it then that things are no better between you and Zane."

"What's it matter to you?"

"I don't know why you two have stayed together - and don't tell me it was just for the sake of the children - or the good of the family. We had that sermon rammed down our throats all our lives and look what we did." The last parts of Edmonde's words are filled with bitterness and a tinge of sadness.

"I don't want to get into this Edmonde, not now and not with you."

"Or perhaps there really is still love between you two."

"Edmonde." Eleanor's voice warns.

"You've done more than enough for the Villons and the Ravenscrofts," Edmonde tells her, "perhaps it's time you started doing something for yourself for a change. Traditions, loyalty, there not what they're cracked up to be, you know this just as well as I do."

"Have you heard from Sebastian lately?" Eleanor asks changing the subject.

"Not for a few months," Edmonde tells her, "last I heard he was busy entangling himself in the affairs of some African country - damn fool."

Edmonde and Eleanor's conversation is interrupted by the distant roar of a jet helicopter drawing closer and closer.

"The king arrives," announces Edmonde.

"Why don't you wait out on the veranda, I'll send Zane to you."

"As you wish." Edmonde goes to leave but stops at the door and turns back to his sister. "Do you ever regret what we did to father?"

Eleanor is silent and un-emotive.

"I feel the same way," Edmonde responds pointedly.

Eleanor is pouring her second martini when Zane enters the living room having just arrived from New York aboard the company's Bel Jet helicopter.

He is tired and weary, a condition made all the worse by Eleanor's icy greeting. Followed by the arguing - nowadays a regular occurrence.

"Jesus Eleanor, give it a rest."

"Why? We're husband and wife - we're supposed to communicate aren't we, well that's what we're doing...communicating."

"This serves no purpose."

Eleanor wasn't in any mood to let up. "I think it does. How many whores did you screw today?"

"Please, give it a rest, I'm begging you."

"You would like that wouldn't you."

"Regardless of what's happened between us, this constant bickering is pointless, besides I thought we decided to let it go." Zane tries to reason with her.

"That's the problem Zane, we let it go and we shouldn't have. Now I've grown to despise you so much, the affairs, the lies, and the hurt. I can never forgive you for what you've done, for what I've done and for what we both may yet do."

"It doesn't have to be like this," Zane beseeches.

"There's no redemption. Not for people like us."

"And forgiveness?"

"Forgiveness is no longer a luxury we can afford."

"Only the foolish and the dead never change their opinion."

"But I am dead, Zane. I died a long time ago."

"I still care deeply for you Eleanor." Zane's words are sincere and yet to Eleanor they sound hollow and uncaring. "Is there to be nothing more between us but hate?"

"It's all I've got left," Eleanor replies bitterly.

Zane looks Eleanor straight in the eye and says without deceit. "I have no hatred for you Eleanor."

"Damn you to hell," Eleanor tells him.

She then quickly storms out of the room before the tears come. She has no intention of giving Zane the satisfaction of seeing that.

Edmonde is standing on the veranda admiring the sunset, its rays reaching across the vast grounds of Avalon like stretching arms as twilight descends upon the land. Zane is none too pleased to see him.

"I've got nothing to tell you Edmonde," Zane abruptly informs him coming straight to the point.

"But your contacts..."

Zane cuts in. "Are still looking into it. But I can pretty much assure you that you're just going to have to ride this storm out."

"Ride it out. For God's sake there going to lay charges."

"It'll blow over or it'll be handled. Besides I can't tell you anymore until I know more. You wasted your time in coming here."

"You're not going to intervene are you?" Edmonde accuses.

"At this stage it will be the wrong course of action."

"What is this, payback, I've done more to help you and the others than anyone else has."

"That's beside the point."

"When there was blood to be spilt, I did it, when there were people to be taken care of, I did it. I didn't hear any of you crying then."

"Don't come here lecturing me, Edmonde. You don't want me on your bad side because I'll tear you a new one." Zane's words have no absence of malice.

"But I need help," Edmonde pleads, "they've already arrested several associates."

"Have they talked?"

"That's just it, I don't know, I haven't been able to find out anything."

"Then until we do, I suggest you chill out."

"That's easy for you to say, they're not after you."

Zane slowly rubs his temples as the first stage of a bad headache encroaches upon him. "Look, as far as 'Ravenscroft Holdings' goes, there can never be a connection, you know that, you've always known that. But until we know what's what you need to remain calm, once we've got all the facts we'll act, if we can, and even if we can't this whole thing will blow over, it always does."

"I hope your right," Edmonde threateningly informs him.

"What are you saying?"

"The winds are changing. The sheeple are quickly waking up to us, to our methods, and it's not so easy to control things now as it once was."

"It is."

"I hope so, but if it isn't just remember that if I go down I don't go down alone."

"Is that a threat?" Zane asks accusingly.

"Just a fact," Edmonde points out. "And just as much as I don't want to be on your bad side, likewise you don't want to be on mine."

And with that Edmonde leaves.

His thoughts already planning what his next move will be.

They weren't pretty.

He briskly makes his way out front where a chauffeur driven Mercedes is waiting. He climbs in the back and turns to the other passenger waiting for him, his good buddy and right hand man, Charlie Berry.

"Well?" Charlie asks his thick Irish accent still prevalent.

"We may have to take steps," Edmonde replies in an ominous tone as the car pulls away from Avalon.

Several hours later Zane sits in one of the thick leather chairs in the library, by the unlit fireplace, trying to enjoy a cognac. The headache has subsided but still he feels the occasional stabbing pain. Zane has taken to retreating to this room of late, it was quiet and the many tiers of books gave him a sense of stability and order. But it was all an illusion. His life was anything but settled. His thoughts at the moment were of course on Eleanor and their marriage.

Everything had seemed to be going so well, even after the tragic events surrounding the birth of their first child. The three children they got through surrogates have turned out to be a blessing. Eleanor accepted them as if they had come from her own womb. She showed them love, happiness, kindness and joy, as had Zane. Most of the bloodline families treat their children like crap so that they grow up to be mean and nasty, and whichever one proves to be the most ruthless is the one that is chosen to rule. But Zane never subscribed to that regime and neither did his father or mother.

And yet Zane was aware of a subtle distance Eleanor kept between herself and the children, you would never recognize it if you didn't know Eleanor well, but Zane knew his wife all too well. They only argued about it once many years ago, in this very room where he now sat. It was after she slapped their eldest, Samantha, quite hard across the face, the poor girl was only six years old and it was a brutal retaliation for such a minor offence.

Zane still remembers that conversation vividly.

"You're imagining things," Eleanor had told him when he brought up the matter over drinks.

"Don't try to fool me, love, I've seen the way you've been behaving lately with them, you're starting to put distance between them and yourself," Zane points out.

"Rubbish, how can you say that, I love them."

"Your reaction and response to the poor child was irrational."

"I might not be their biological mother but they're still my babies."

"Yes, and you've been wonderful," Zane readily agrees, "but you must have regrets at what has happened and I wouldn't want to see you take that out on your relationship with the children."

"I'm not," Eleanor says tersely.

"You have never truly expressed your feelings about this matter."

"What's there to say, my one shot as a true mother ended with the birth and death of our first child. I've dealt with it - accepted it and have moved on. I've given Sam, Damon and Bobby all my affection. And we're raising them for the good of the family, aren't we, and that comes first above everything else." Eleanor pours herself another highball, trying desperately not to raise her voice.

It is a challenge.

"I don't mean to upset you," Zane says with genuine affection, "I love you, but I know with your role at Banque Villon that it can't be easy for you. And the worst thing that anyone can do is to let a problem or frustrations build up inside of them."

"You don't think I can handle it all?" Eleanor questions.

"I didn't say that, of course you can."

"Look, I'll admit it's been tough," Eleanor relents, "but I'm alright."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I mean, it's hard to look at them sometimes and to know that there not my flesh and blood and that they didn't come from my womb, it's only natural to feel like that at times. But that doesn't mean I love them any less, I adore them for Christ's sake. It's different for a man and besides they did come from your seed, didn't they." Eleanor wipes away the tears that begin to fall.

"Here now," Zane sooths as he puts his arms lovingly around his wife, "it's alright, it's alright, we'll get through any problems, we always have."

Eleanor looks up at her husband. "I'm sorry; you know how emotional I can get at times. But I do love the children, Zane; you believe me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"It's important; I want us to always be happy."

"And we will, just look at what we've gone through and we're still here. Our love will endure, Eleanor, of that I'm sure. And our children - our children - will grow into giants. The bloodlines are at peace for the first time in decades. We can concentrate fully on what is important and our children and you and I are at the top of the list."

"But will it always be so?" she asks.

"Of course it will."

Eleanor and Zane kiss, their love still strong.

The years went by, the children grew, the secret of their surrogate mother hidden from them and the outside world, and somehow the spark between Eleanor and Zane fizzled, the fire went out and their love for one another seemed to wither and die. There was no one reason, but rather many, small, incremental things, that grew into something bigger and larger.

But before - there was a golden age of Camelot.

A time when Eleanor and he ruled side by side. Making decisions as a team and charting the course for the Ravenscroft and Villon families, creating and building instead of destroying. Eleanor proving more than capable of handling the Villon banking interests, her business and negotiation skills became legendary. There were of course factions within both ranks who begrudged them for what they had done in joining these two power houses together. And there were still battles that had to be fought and won, but they were more skirmishes than anything else and over time those fires were put out or at least subdued. All in all their reign was a productive one. As for their love, that just seemed to grow stronger day by day.

Their passion for each other was bright and sturdy, and the empire they governed mirrored this. It seemed to everyone that Zane and Eleanor were a couple that was meant to be. Two powerful individuals ruling side by side whose deep love sustained them. But all good things must come to an end and so it was with Eleanor and Zane. The light was overcome by the darkness that was always lurking on the fringes of their world.

One contributing factor was the fact that Eleanor has always felt guilty about the way she treated her father and her grandmother. The sense of betrayal never fully went away. And although Zane never told her the truth of what happened between him and Christophe, Zane has always wondered whether Eleanor had guessed the truth of the matter.

But if she had, she said nothing. At times Eleanor would keep things very close to the chest. It has become part of her nature over the years growing up as a Villon, especially with a father as draconian and tyrannical as Christophe Villon, one quickly learned to keep their secrets locked away. People knowing your secrets gave them power over you, something even Zane was cautious about.

Then came the affairs.

Zane has always had a magnetism to him that has attracted the opposite sex and it is no secret that he has a healthy sexual appetite. But he stayed loyal for many years. But the urges within him and the growing distance between him and Eleanor finally got the better of him.

They were nothing but flings at first. One night stands that served as a relief for his sexual drive. They meant nothing to him. As far as he was concerned they just filled a desire he craved. It was sex not love.

That is until he met Terina Benson.

Terina was a stunningly beautiful African American woman who came to work for Zane Ravenscroft as a secretary in 1989. The instant Zane laid eyes upon her short trimmed dark brown hair, brown eyes and slim figure, he was instantly smitten, as was she. At 26 years of age Terina hailed from New Jersey, High School educated she had worked as a secretary in a variety of firms in New York City before finally landing the position at 'Ravenscroft Holdings'.

And the rest as they say is history.

Zane fell in love with Terina's smile, her vivaciousness, her sense of humour and her love of life. She had a passion for living. He perused her and she let herself get caught. Their affair lasted several months until Terina fell pregnant and although the affair was kept secret eventually Eleanor found out.

They always do.

They argued but nothing was ever resolved. The good of the children, the good of the family kept them together.

As things got tensed it was Terina who decided to end the affair. It wasn't an easy decision to make as she truly loved him and she knew that he had very strong feelings towards her, but both knew that it could never be. And so Terina left to have their baby and raise the child as a single mother, refusing to take any money from Zane to help with the upkeep.

Afterwards matters between Eleanor and Zane seemed to return to some semblance of normality. But the damage had been done and as time went by they grew further and further apart and eventually began to live separate lives. And like a reformed alcoholic falling off the wagon Zane commenced to lose himself in a myriad of affairs. In one year alone he had three mistresses and of course there were the prostitutes, that he practically had on retainer, and not your fifty bucks a half hour type, no he paid a thousand to two thousand a night for some of the best hookers that money could ever by.

"A penny for your thoughts," the voice of an elderly lady barges in on his concentration.

Zane looks up at his Aunt Margaret who is standing nearby, leaning on her walking stick, having come into the room without Zane noticing. "Here, sit down." Zane quickly stands and helps her into the chair opposite the one he was sitting in. "I thought you'd be in bed fast asleep by now."

"Plenty of time for that nonsense in the grave," she tells him pragmatically. Even though she was frail and well into her eighties, Margaret was as outspoken and opinionated as ever. "The whole place is too damn quiet, where's Eleanor?"

"She's gone into the city for a few days. No doubt to get away from me," he tells her.

"Ah well, I'm still here."

"Yes you are, yes you are," Zane says fondly. "I don't know what I would do without you."

"Get into even more trouble I suspect."

"No doubt," he smiles affectionately. Zane simply adores his aunt, all the more since they lost Aunt Rosemary to cancer seven years ago.

"So, what's bothering you tonight?"

"I never could sneak anything pass you, could I?"

"Not many people can my dear and especially not you."

"I've just been thinking about...well, about Eleanor, and all that's occurred."

"You regret the things you've done?"

"Yes – of course – and no - what good are regrets anyway, they are nothing but lost opportunities, shadows of things that will never be."

"Or perhaps could still be." Margaret offers wisely.

"No," he tells her with conviction, "it's finished between us, the damage can never be repaired and yet the irony of it all is that I still love her, and I also know that deep down she still loves me, or at least cares."

"You never stop loving someone," Margaret informs him, "people who say that they once loved a person but don't anymore are either lying or they didn't really love them to begin with. Love is too strong an emotion, a feeling. Believe me when I tell you that you never stop loving, even if that someone is no longer with you and apart of your life. That's the kicker of it, that's the truth that everyone tries to deny."

"When did you become so wise?"

"Wisdom is nothing more than common sense refined by learning and experience. Haven't you learned anything from me yet?"

"Well, if that's the case I should be one of the wisest men on the planet by now," he says with more than a little helping of sarcasm.

"I do hate to see you like this."

"Don't worry aunty, I'm fine."

"I've watched you grow into a strong man, Zane, and a hard one."

"What other choice was there."

"I know that you've had to sell out many of your beliefs for the so called greater good. But never forget what I once told you, how you do something, how you achieve your goal is still in your hands, it always has and always will be."

"You still believe that?" he questions doubtfully.

But there is no hesitation in Margaret's reply. "Yes I do. You've just lost sight of the fact, that's all."

"I don't know about that.'

"I do."

## CHAPTER 10

New York

The New York Argonauts crash heavily with the Cincinnati Juggernauts as the stadium shook from the shockwave and the tremendous roar of the New York crowd. Stadium Argo was literally shaking, rattling and rolling from the noise of the capacity crowd. It was a titanic struggle going on, but the Argonauts were two points up with only a minute to go, the ball at the 40 yard line and in the Juggernauts hands. It is Friday night football at its best.

Chuck Benson _(Hercules)_ , middle line backer for the Argonauts was on fire. At 25 years of age Chuck was destined to be a hall of famer, of African-American origin he was already considered to be one of the greatest players the game has ever produced. Built like a Sherman tank, he was not only blessed with great strength, but also speed, a lethal combination, in fact he's all round ability on the field had astounded commentator and detractor alike. But above all the fans adore him. He was a hero, an icon, a gentle giant in many ways, but on the playing field he was a deadly bone crushing machine of destruction that put the fear of God into the opposition offensive sides.

Buddy Wilson, quarterback for the Juggernauts, was one player all too aware of Benson's capabilities, having already been taken down by him five times tonight and each time he hit the deck it felt harder than the previous. Wilson was amazed at how easily Benson is able to flatten the guys on his team whose job it was to protect him. And now with only a minute left in the game, Wilson finds himself praying to the god of sports for help because in his heart of hearts Buddy Wilson knew that divine intervention was probably the only thing that was going to save the Juggernauts tonight.

Chuck Benson is actually quite good friends with Buddy Wilson, they share many interests including the charities they supported, and spent time together on the golf course, but all that was off the field of combat. And friend or not Chuck Benson would take down Buddy Wilson with all the strength he could muster, because in the game of professional football winning was everything, he wasn't paid millions of dollars per match for his good looks, although 'The Sirens', the cheerleader squad of the Argonauts, would probably make an argument otherwise. In particular the head cheerleader, Latisha Jones, who is Chuck's unofficial girlfriend, who is outdoing herself with splits, back flips and cart wheels tonight. Not to mention her twirling and jerking pompoms that is helping to send the home crowd into a frenzy.

Watching the match unfold from the corporate box high up in the stadium, is the co-owner of the Argonauts, Zane Ravenscroft, alongside of him sat Robert Hancock, president of the Argonauts, and his deputy, Bryan Van Der Harr, as well as a couple of managers whose companies were sponsors of the club.

"Damn if we couldn't put Benson out there by himself we'd still win," Bryan enthuses over his glass of beer, just one of many that have already been consumed tonight. No expense was spared in the owner's box, food, beer, wine, pretzels; whatever took your fancy was catered for. And there was always a waiting list for people to get in. It was almost the highlight of the season for many people to do so.

"I've never seen such strength," one of the sponsor's says.

"He's got a gift that's a fact," the other sponsor confirms.

"He's on fire tonight; even blind Freddy could see that. Damn it's something to watch," Robert Hancock adds.

"No doubt about it," Zane says with a sense of satisfaction as he watches his illegitimate son break through the opposition line yet again allowing for the Juggernauts quarterback to be taken done, and this time Buddy Wilson gets up with a limp. The ensuing roar from the crowd rattles the corporate box windows.

"The super bowl will be ours this year Zane," Robert comments with not a shred of doubt in his voice.

"Hot damn!" Zane shouts, his chest bursting with pleasure.

Chuck Benson is of course the son of Terina Benson, the secretary Zane had an affair with, the end result being the birth of Chuck, who has no idea that Zane is his father, in fact no one knew, except Eleanor. Although Zane stayed away from Terina and her son, he always kept an eye on them and when Chuck started playing college football and succeeding. Zane made sure that his scouts got him to the Argonauts.

Not only was he an asset to the team it also allowed Zane to strike up a relationship with him and out of everything he has done or accomplished in his life, Zane considered Chuck Benson one of his greatest achievements.

Meanwhile uptown; as his boss was enjoying his team's victory, Nelson de Fuego was busy enjoying the pleasure of making love to his boss's wife.

"Don't stop - please ...." Eleanor moans. Her hands grabbing Nelson's firm buttocks, her fingers digging deep into his flesh. She pulls him deeper and deeper inside, the moist walls of her inner sanctum tighten around his hard and throbbing tool of flesh. The moisture flowing out between her legs was now a torrent of rapturous joy. It has been quite a while since she had a young stud in her bed and Nelson was a fantastic lover, full of energy, passion and endurance.

They have been going for almost an hour now.

Sensing that Nelson was getting close to his climax - again, Eleanor wraps her legs more firmly around his back. "Damnit - don't stop now." Leaving one hand on his butt she moves her other hand up his back wrapping that arm around his broad shoulders, entangling herself in his sweat covered body. Looking into his face she sees him grimace as if in pain indicating that he was about to come. She feels his body go taught and then still, his breathing hard and heavy.

"Yes my darling \- yes - that's it," Eleanor whispers sweetly into his ear. She knew how to handle men, especially young ones, and there was much she wants from this one.

"Shit," Nelson mumbles. He rolls off of her, his penis still hard, the condom filled up. For several moments the two just lay there catching their breath. Then without prompting, Nelson sits up, tosses the soiled condom away and grabs a new one, ripping open the packet and rolling back the prepuce of his penis and then slipping the rubber over is erection.

Eleanor was somewhat amazed that her lover was still so hard. "Oh my."

Without saying a word Nelson reaches over to her and turns her around onto her hands and knees.

"What are you doing?"

"What you want," he replies.

He parts her checks and inserts himself into her once more. Eleanor lets out a yelp of delight as she leans forward raising her bottom.

As Nelson moves back and forward like a prize stallion mounting a mare Eleanor eagerly opens herself up to the enjoyment that was to follow, all the while thinking quietly to herself _that he was giving her exactly what she wanted and that this was just the beginning_.

The Argonauts dressing room is abuzz with the after game activities of a great victory. The players are hitting the showers and getting their rub downs while club officials and guests wander around chatting. The coaching staff is busy going over stats and discussing the game.

The coach is busy giving an interview to the media; Tyrone Jones has coached the team for the last six years leading them to great success and judging by the way this season is shaping up there is another super bowl in the offering. But like all great coaches he plays his cards and emotions close to the chest, not getting overly excited by tonight's victory - telling them that they need to take it one game at a time; much to the disdain of the sports reporters, who have been trying forever to get a rise out of Mr. Jones. But all they ever get are the standard cliché answers.

Steam rises off the water of the metal hot tub that Chuck Benson is soaking his body in, a tub which appears way too small for his bulky physique. Chuck is big when padded up but even without clothes he is just as large, his size and rippling muscles are a true indication of just how strong and talented he is. "Damn fine game Chuck." The middle line backer opens his eyes at the sound of Zane's voice. "Thanks boss," he replies cordially.

"Always with the formalities."

"That's how my mama taught me."

"And a damn fine job she did to. How is she, by the way?"

"She's good, been a bit under the weather lately."

"Nothing to serious I hope," Zane asks with genuine concern.

"Just the flu."

"Well, give her my best," Zane says. Although he stayed away from Chuck and Terina, when Chuck came to the club he naturally bumped into Terina again, but those few times were always public and never private.

"Will do," Chuck assures him.

"How's the body?"

"I feel great. The body's never been better. Don't you worry boss I'll help get us to the super bowl."

"I know you will son," Zane replies with a beaming smile.

"Thanks."

Although he uses the word son it is merely a form of endearment for Chuck who has no idea that Zane is his biological father.

"I just want to do my best because I know how lucky and bless I am to be here. The lord above has given me a gift and I'm not going to waste it, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I do." Zane is so filled with pride, love and affection for his unclaimed son. Chuck Benson is just one of those people who is good, kind hearted, humble and always willing to help out. Zane would like nothing more than to acknowledge him - to proclaim to the whole world how proud he is. But that will never happen and will have to remain an unrealised dream of Zane's.

Just one more to add to the list that he has been forced to give up over the years. And yet Chuck always seems to bring out the more gentler and compassionate side of Zane's nature. Every time he looks into this young man's eyes he sees a glimpse of another life he could have had if he wasn't born a Ravenscroft.

"I just want you to know," Zane tells him, "that you're doing your mother proud and this club and I for one am glad and proud that you're here. I just want you to know that."

"Thank you sir, I'm glad to be here to."

Sophia soaks her body beneath the warm water of the shower.

Soaping and lathering her physique. She slowly washes away the smell of her lover. She hadn't deliberately set out to have an affair with Nelson, it just happened, there was no emotions attached to it, she has no feelings of love or affection towards him. Their whole relationship was purely physical, sexual in nature. They enjoy each other's bodies it is as simple as that.

The truth of the matter is that Sophia has had several flings in the last few years, all designed with one purpose in mind - to hurt Zane - to get back at him - to lash out. She is angry and filled with hurt and has been for several years now. And the worse thing of all is that she still loves him. Zane is and always will be the love of her life and that makes the whole situation worse, even though the love was still present it was equally matched by the hatred.

"Damnit." Sophia quickly washes away the tears threatening to swell up in her eyes. _If only you could wash away regrets as easily_.

"What the hell am I going to do?" She softly asks the heavens. But as usual receives no answer. Sophia knows and has always knowing that the only one who can help her is herself. She knows that things can't keep going on like this that eventually there will have to be a final reckoning between her and Zane. And yet deep down she still secretly ponders the possibility of reconciliation. But in reality she knows that it's probably too late and that Zane and her are travelling towards a head on collision and that both of them will not survive.

Then on top of it all are the nightmares.

In them her dead father comes to her.

Pointing an accusing bony hand at her - calling her names - murderer - betrayer.

Then waking up in cold sweats her heart pounding threatening to explode out of her chest. She has of course been fighting these night terrors with pills but of late even they seem to be having no effect.

She knows that it's just her conscience getting the better of her but lately her dead father has been trying to say something to her. During that time of wandering through the landscape of dreams and nightmares Christophe Villon has been mouthing words, words that she can never make out - as if trying to relay a message.

A violent shiver grips Sophia's entire body despite the warmth of the shower.

_Stop it_.

"Fuck it."

She has even begun to wonder of late wether on not the Villon madness was beginning to claim her like it did her father.

"Just punishment that would be."

After leaving Sophia, Nelson sits silently, contemplating matters, behind the wheel of his car. The car park of the hotel was deserted and very still like a tomb, giving the young executive all the peace he needs to gather his thoughts.

Nelson is a self made man, a kid from an impoverished background in Southern California who made good. Although not blessed with wealth he was blessed with smarts, as his departed mother was fond of telling him: "intelligence was much more valuable than money". _How right she was_ Nelson thinks. It was his brains that got him into collage and then onto university where he graduated with honours with a degree in business which led to his first job as a junior executive at 'Lincoln Consolidation'. His strong work ethic and skill soon had him climbing the corporate ladder and with each rung he traversed so his bank balance grew and along with that came all the trappings of wealth.

And yet despite it all Nelson managed to keep his scruples and decency, so important to his mother, intact - for a time. No one rises in the cut throat corporate world without doing something dishonest or dirty. When you swim with the sharks you have to know how to defend yourself.

Nelson's corruption was subtle but it did come, along with Michael Torrance, head hunter for the Illumnati - their top recruiter, although he never advertised it. Torrance was as cool and slick as they came, his body and mannerisms were like those of a praying mantis and yet his personality was jovial and friendly and yet he could literally sell ice to the Eskimos. Nelson doubts that there isn't a salesman on the entire planet who could compete with Michael Torrance.

"Procrastination is the thief of time", was Michael Torrance's motto.

Torrance approached Nelson introducing himself as a freelance recruiter who was paid a lot of money by various corporations to find the best talent and secure their services. And he wanted Nelson del Fuego. The young executive soon fell under Torrance's spell, and that's exactly what it was - magic - pure and simple. Michael was a wizard and Nelson was to be his prized student.

"One of the secret ambitions of many people is to be able to enjoy some of the evils which go with having too much money," Torrance crooned on during their first meet at the expensive Marco Polo Restaurant. "Money is not evil; it's what people do with it." Nelson says.

"A valid point of view. I can see that you're also a person of sound morals, how refreshing."

"My mother was a good teacher. She said money couldn't make you happy."

"A wise woman and true enough, but such sentiments are better said from the back of one's own limousine," Torrance suggests.

"A sense of humour is a good characteristic in a person."

"Indeed it is, look Nelson, your talent is wasted at 'Lincoln Consolidation'. It's a dead end; you've climbed about as far as you're going to go."

"You think so?"

"Believe me you've got the potential and the talent to go right to the top," Torrance enthuses. "And I've found some real masters of the universe that couldn't cut it and fell by the wayside, but you my friend, there's no limit where I could take you."

"Really?"

"I know so."

Nelson is thoughtful and contemplative.

Torrance is a great salesman.

"The person who gets ahead is the one who does more than is necessary - and keeps on doing it," Torrance adds knowingly.

"You're not afraid of me being a failure?"

"Failure only catches up with those that sit down and wait for success, and you're not one of those people Nelson, trust me."

"Do you have an answerer for everything?"

"But of course."

Nelson has a sip of his wine. "So where can you take me, then?"

"How does 'Ravenscroft Holdings' sound for a start."

This announcement causes Nelson to raise an eyebrow. "Are you serious?"

"I never joke about my work," Torrance informs him with a grin to rival the Cheshire Cat.

Dinners, parties, and meetings soon followed. Nelson quickly found himself rubbing shoulders with captains of industry and some of the wealthiest people on the planet including Zane Ravenscroft. You could say Nelson had his head turned and it wasn't simply the wealth and power that he was getting a taste of - it was also the women. When you came under the umbrella of the Illumnati you were given the best of everything and that's how they got Nelson. Once you have a taste of the forbidden fruit you always want more.

So Nelson was recruited into the lower tiers of the pyramid.

But his rise was rapid and within just a handful of years he was appointed as Zane Ravenscroft's personal assistant. An outsider couldn't get much higher. Of course Nelson had to sell his soul along the way. He hadn't had to kill anybody but he was force to do some unsavoury things that he was not proud of. Still what he has achieved is nothing to sneeze at, which isn't bad for a poor Latino who rose from obscurity to shagging the wife of the most powerful man in the world.

Eleanor is a fine woman probably the finest he has ever met and he enjoys their time together. But he knows it can't last. He has to end it before Zane finds out. Nelson is amazed that they have gotten away with it so far but that couldn't last.

And while Nelson is quite sure that Eleanor doesn't care one way or the other, in fact she would like nothing more that to hurt Zane, it wouldn't be the delectable Eleanor that cops the full wrath of Zane's anger. Nelson knows all too well what happens to traitors within the Illumnati and it scares the shit out of him. That's why he has to finish it. But he is like an addict and Eleanor is the drug and he doesn't know if he can go cold turkey or whether she would even let him.

Perhaps that's why Nelson has decided to keep certain papers linking 'Ravenscroft Holdings' to Edmonde Villon's illicit activities, defying the direct orders of his boss to destroy them. Knowing that they will come in handy if his neck is ever on the line. But there was something else bothering Nelson and that is his conscience, that unseen barometer that is within us all, telling us right from wrong. And lately his conscience, his scruples, has been getting the better of him.

"Why now?"

Nelson has begun to regret the path his life has taken and the things that have been done in the name of 'The Work of Ages'. Also he has started to dream of his dead mother, dreams in which she disapproves of what he has done, crying at what her son has become.

Nelson's soul is in turmoil.

He is unsure what to do.

Only that he knows he must do something.

He can't just hand in his resignation; they will never let him go - not willingly. No, for better or worse, Nelson was stuck and yet he knows he can't go on the way he has been, his conscience won't allow him and neither will his dead mother. Nelson is glad that she is not alive to see what has become of her little boy and the fact that he is glad that his mother is dead only adds to his distress.

Getting nowhere fast Nelson abruptly turns the ignition over and slowly pulls out of the car park still with no idea what the hell he was going to do.

He would have to decide soon.

Time was running out.

After signing a number of autographs for his young fans, Chuck Benson and his girlfriend, Latisha Jones, make their way towards Chuck's black and silver Humvee, their arms wrapped around each other, two people totally infatuated with each other.

"Where do you want to eat tonight?" Latisha asks.

"I'm easy you know that."

"Not too easy I hope," Latisha replies with a grin.

"You know you don't have to wine and dine me to get into my pants," Chuck jokes, which gets him a whack from Latisha.

"But seriously, let's go back to the apartment and you can cook me an omelette."

"But you hate my omelettes," Latisha points out.

"I know," Chuck says and then adds, "but I love you."

This comment pleases Latisha no end. "You sweet talker you."

"Come on, let's go home and to bed," Chuck suggests while picking up Latisha in his big arms and plonking her down in the passenger's seat and then crushing his lips against hers. "That's just to wet your appetite."

"That's not all that's wet."

"Now behave, I've still got to drive you know."

"Then be quick about it."

"You look fine tonight baby, you know that."

"So do you, now hurry up baby because I'm aching for some TLC."

Chuck smiles from ear to ear and kisses his girlfriend again before getting behind the wheel. Up above dark storm clouds roll in over the stadium, a portent of the typhoon that is about to break upon the House of Ravenscroft.

## CHAPTER 11

St. Petersburg, Russia, 7 years ago

Masha Zhukovsky lies at death's door.

Her room at her Dacca outside of St. Petersburg is in semi darkness.

The thick red curtains drawn to keep the hurtful brightness of the light out. Silence pervades the death chamber apart from the sound of her shallow breathing and the mechanical sound of the monitors and iron lung which are keeping her alive. But even such measures as these are now failing her. At 110 years of age Masha Zhukovsky has led a long life full of love, happiness, cruelty, sadness and above all betrayal, but even her hatred and anger is not enough to sustain her anymore.

She has extended her life far beyond the norm but even a Goddesses' time upon the earth must come to an end. It is time for her to leave the stage, to take her final bow, but even in death and from beyond the grave she will have her revenge and that fact fills her with great joy and strength making her unafraid of what awaits her beyond the veil of this world.

The last twenty odd years have been all about her grandson, ensuring his safety and future, for it will be through Grozny Zhukovsky that she will extract her revenge against the House of Ravenscroft and her own grandchildren. The animosity she still feels towards Eleanor, Edmonde and Sebastian almost rivals her loathing of Zane Ravenscroft, the man who murdered her beautiful son. Not a day has gone by in her twilight years that she hasn't thought of Christophe; even now she can still see his face as a little boy.

That boy looking to her for guidance and protection, both of which she failed to provide him in the end.

And so she vowed that would not happen to her grandson.

On her return to the motherland she was welcomed by many powerful factions within Russia and the Kremlin. She was not idle over the years beforehand cultivating such contacts, knowing some day that she would need to return to Russia if only to be buried with her long dead family. And despite her seemingly unquenchable thirst for revenge, deep down within her blackened soul she yearns for the peacefulness of the grave and the prospect of finally being reunited with her lovely sisters and her parents, their ghosts and phantoms having haunted her for so many years. Their voices calling out to her for vengeance, retribution for the heinous crime perpetuated against them and although she never saw their bodies, her mind's eye could picture what they must have looked like after the massacre. Of late she has caught glimpses of them in her room, their bullet ridden corpses reaching out to embrace her, but whether in welcome or not, she could not say.

She would find out soon enough.

But before this she has been busy shoring up her standing within Russia, ensuring that her grandson would not want for anything, his safety and continuing existence was her number one priority. She knew where the real power laid in Russia, which factions within the military and the KGB to grease and of course the Kremlin. The Zhukovsky family was still fondly remembered within many of the older generations of Russia, who still had influence on the generations that followed. It took a lot of wheeling and dealing, and money, but Masha knew the Russian mind and thinking and so she had no trouble adapting to it and reasserting herself back into the country of her birth.

She began by purchasing her family's former country Dacca outside of St. Petersburg, an empty and run down shell of its former brilliance but one she soon restored to its former glory; meticulously ensuring that the paint and wallpaper were exactly the same as the original, that the brilliant murals of cherubs, angels and saints on the ceilings were restored to their grandiose beauty, as were the plastering mastership of the interior ceiling eaves with their intricate swirl patterns and flowers, and the light fittings, great works of dangling crystal and glass. She even restored the medium size ballroom to its former glamour using it to throws dinner parties, to wine and dine all the right people and contacts.

The Zhukovsky way.

For a time Masha's soirees were not to be missed, it was as if the Czar had returned, that was until her age and illness brought them to an end. But they achieved their purpose of introducing her grandson into Russian society.

Although the gardens of the Dacca were not as elaborate or anywhere as near as large as Grimstone Manor they were nonetheless beautiful, filled with multi coloured roses, pimpernels and lavender that gave the air a wondrous mixture of pleasing scents, the tea scented roses becoming a favourite of Masha's.

She spent many hours sitting in the garden and reminisce.

Although there was no greenhouse filled with poisonous plants of every type and description, Masha still enjoys the garden immensely, and the fact that she had to give up her hobby was just one more sacrifice she had to make.

She has already made many over the years.

Enough to last more than one lifetime.

Adversity is a good teacher; and as a Russian saying goes: without torture there is no science.

From her hideaway Masha watched the events of the world unfold.

The warming of relations between America and Russia, the rise of glasnost and perestroika and Gorbachev. She observed the Berlin Wall come tumbling down along with the Soviet Union; a fact that brought her great joy for the end of the Soviet Union was in the long run the rebirth of Russia - her home. She had no time for Gorbachev, she found him weak willed and too eager to please the West and she suspected those Western factions connected to the Illuminati and Ravenscroft. But even Gorbachev was preferable to the buffoon Yeltsin that followed, a drunkard lout who became a laughing stock to the world. But this time was also the time of the oligarchies and the rise of Putin and above all the re-emergence of Russia as a super power still to be reckoned with in the world.

Masha admired Putin; in him she saw the strength of the great Russian leaders of old, someone who cared for Russia and wouldn't allow her to be pushed around and ill treated, willing to take head on those that would seek to destroy her. And by willingly supporting Putin and his factions she secured completely her grandson's future in the new Russia, a future that would see him rise to great heights.

Masha's return to Russia was good for her body, spirit and mind, and although she had to secure a future for the remainder of her years, her main focus was always her grandson, Grozny. As he grew she took him all around Russia, showing him the country of her birth, the great museums of art, the former palaces of the Czars and of course the ancestral home of the Zhukovskys, instilling in him a sense of the history that was behind his name. She ensured that he was well acquainted with every Zhukovsky who ever lived, telling him that to succeed in the future he must know the past triumphs and mistakes of the House of Zhukovsky; and that the most important lesson of all was to trust no one - not even family. She made that mistake and she was determined that Grozny would not. And yet she adored her grandson who reciprocated likewise. For Grozny, his grandmother became his whole world.

As well as ensuring that her grandson is well educated she also made sure that he knew how to defend himself - how to kill. As he grew older she hired former KGB assassins and Spetsnaz bodyguards, the elite special forces of the Russian military, to not only protect him but to also train him in the use of arms. A mistake she made with Christophe and it was one she wasn't going to do again. Grozny would learn how to take care of himself no matter the situation he might find himself in. Masha cultivated the colder, reptilian nature of her grandson, teaching him that love and empathy were weaknesses to be avoided but exploited in others.

There were also other ways to defeat an enemy besides a bullet to the head; for instance, if you know the mind of your enemy, know how he thinks, what he believes in and you make them believe that you agree with their views, then you have already defeated them, for then you are able to influence them. Masha made sure that Grozny was aware of all possibilities when confronting the enemy.

"Never be afraid of a barking dog, be afraid of a silent one," she would tell him giving him the same advice she gave Christophe when he was young.

"What was my father like?" Grozny enquired one cold wintery day at their Dacca.

Masha sat by the fire stoking the flames.

She was quiet for some time.

She never really ever spoke too much or in depth about her dead son, it was always a hard subject to talk about. But the time had come "He was a king, a ruler of men, a

conqueror. The bible speaks of giants that once roamed the earth; they could have been speaking about your father. Strong was he and feared. His iron fist crushed those who would oppose him and rewarded those that did his will."

"I wish I could have known him," Grozny says regretfully.

"You're much like him and you will avenge him. Your father was all those things I've told you and more. But he was also sick and that hampered his judgement, he trusted those closest to him too much and that was his downfall. Betrayal from the inner sanctum allowed that vile reptile Zane Ravenscroft to do him in. You must never make that mistake or the Ravenscrofts will triumph once more. They are a cancer that must be eradicated; they have no honour amongst their own kind. They butchered my family - they killed my son," she cries out in pain, tears welling up in her old but still fiery eyes.

Grozny goes to her and places a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Have no tears babushka I shall achieve where my father failed."

"I know you will. You're strong Grozny and you've such anger in you - feed that anger but be strong enough to control that anger instead of letting it control you. And when the time comes release it in all its force directing it at your enemies. Oh my boy," she says proudly placing her hands on his cheeks, "I will always be with you as will the Zhukovskys and Villons for their royal and holy blood runs through your veins, nourishing you, replenishing you, it will not let you down. I've never been more proud than when I look into your eyes and see you father in them. But remember when you face your enemy, their weaknesses are the thing to be feared, not their strength and by knowing this you know their vulnerabilities, use that knowledge and you will be victorious."

"Yes babushka."

With her contacts within the former spy apparatus of the Soviet Union Masha was also able to get constant updates on Zane Ravenscroft and her vile grandchildren. She watched with growing disdain the rise and rise of the House of Ravenscroft. She took particular interest in the birth of Zane and Sophia's children and the intelligence report that hinted that they may have had a surrogate mother. This news for some reason prompted an old memory in her head of the time she first met Zane at a ski resort in Aspen and how he reminded her so much of Christophe at that age and the possibility that Zane was Christophe's illegitimate son had occurred to her.

She could never prove it and she never acted upon her suspicions, although she's learned to trust her instincts over the years, but still it was something she filed away to perhaps be used at a later date. A decision that was perhaps unfortunate for her dead son. Masha was also very keen to learn of Edmonde's involvement in the underworld, realising that this could provide an opening to infiltrate the enemy camp.

She also learned over the years the growing tensions between her grandchildren and Zane, growing rifts that could be exploited. She made sure that Grozny was well informed about Zane Ravenscroft who he would need to destroy.

Zane became an obsession over the ensuing years.

He was like an itch that couldn't be scratched.

He haunted her waking and sleeping thoughts, a shining sparkle amongst all the others that crowded her mind. She despised him and admired him. And why not, if Christophe was his real father then Zane Ravenscroft has Zhukovsky and Villon blood coursing through his veins also, and that in her mind, was the reason that Zane got the better of her son.

In some perverse way Masha actually feels pleased at the success of her other grandson, she would never admit it but sometimes late at night when she was alone with her thoughts and ghosts, this notion would suddenly pop into her head. But she would always quickly dismiss it telling herself vehemently that it made no difference. It didn't matter whether Zane was a Ravenscroft - Zhukovsky - or Villon - he was the king of the enemy and the cold blooded murderer of her son and for that Zane must pay the ultimate price and not only with his life but with the total destruction of his house.

Nothing else will satisfy Masha's thirst for vengeance. Blood must be spilt for blood taken - an eye for an eye - a tooth for a tooth - Old Testament justice must be wrought - and Grozny Zhukovsky is the fire and brimstone that she would hurl upon the heads of her enemies.

So Grozny grew strong, expunging all weaknesses from his being and embracing the more calculating and cold hearted nature of humanity. He harnessed his anger and learnt how to control it and how to wield it when the need arose. His ruthless nature and contacts led him, at the age of twenty-four, to rise as the head of one of the most powerful criminal organisations in Russia: 'Цербер' - 'Cerberus'.

And here he now stands at the death bed of his beloved grandmother - his babushka.

He looks despondently down upon her withered body with his piercing green eyes, chiselled jaw and cheeks, his flat broken nose and scarred lip, a result of a bar room brawl, and his extremely short - almost bald haircut - only adds to his fearsome appearance of a brawler and a thug. But he is much more than that and pity the fool who thinks otherwise.

Yet for all his cruelness, as he gazes down upon the dying Masha, who is now nothing but sagging flesh upon bones, he is filled with sadness to see someone so strong willed reduced to such a weakened state.

"Grozny," Masha's voice croaks as she looks up at her grandson, her eyes still defiant even though the fire within them slowly fades.

"Yes babushka, I'm here," he hastily replies.

"My boy."

"Yes babushka."

"My ring...take it."

Masha raises her right arm towards Grozny.

The grandson reaches out and slowly removes the gold jewelled ring of the Zhukovsky's with its dragon head insignia upon it. He looks from the ring back to his grandmother who gently nods her head affirming what he must do. Grozny then places the symbol of the House of Zhukovsky upon the ring finger of his right hand and kisses it meaningfully.

Masha smiles up at him. "Gather you forces," she orders, "when you're ready - attack -kill...I set you lose my son...avenge us..." And with those final words Masha dies and joins the waiting ghosts of her family. The machines monitor her heart flatline. She leaves the world not with fanfare or in celebration, but rather an old woman in a darken room.

Grozny stands by the side of the bed in silence, his head bowed, quietly promising his deceased babushka that he will not let her down - that he will tear down those that have wronged her and his father.

"I swear it," he mutters. He then bends down and kisses Masha on the forehead, bidding her goodbye.

Club Sevastopol, Moscow, Present Day

As you might expect in a city of over 12,000,000 people Moscow has an amazing array of nightlife catering for everyone's taste, due mainly to its diversity of culture, including some of the greatest jazz clubs in the world.

It is a place full of life.

In Moscow a bar or nightclub is rarely just that, in fact nearly every drinking venue in town doubles up as a restaurant and even triples up, as a billiards club, casino, concert venue; and because Moscow is such a vast metropolis the bar and club owners want to provide their customers with a one-stop-shop for entertainment.

Moscow has it all.

There are of course the old stalwart clubs like Propaganda with its good looking crowd of local students and tourists; then there's Fabrique for a fuller clubbing experience. However, if you lean more towards the alternative, fear not, Mother Moscow will not let you down with the likes of B2 and The Chinese Plot, not to be missed by any who like to take a walk on the wild side. Of course Moscow being the city of sin that it is, bars like Piramida and Nightflight could be for you, occupying prime real estate near Red Square they are notorious for rich business men and naughty girls. Then again you could remove the ambiguity and make a bee line for Dolls, one of the classiest strip joints in the city, or if you're rich enough the Premier Lounge or Soho Rooms are the places to be.

Then there is Club Sevastopol located in the Arabt District, one of the oldest districts in the capital founded by the rich and now considered one of the main tourist hubs of the city. The entrance to Club Sevastopol, so named after the battleship, is located off of Arabt Street down an un-named alley, music can be heard thumping from behind its doors and it is always popular. The club occupies five floors above and below ground; the top floor is a bar and restaurant, the floor below is the nightclub and beating heart of the establishment with its crowded dance floor of gyrating flesh, a second bar, flashing lights, loud music and its famed DJ's; Doc. Perestroika and Yankee Doodle. The floor below this houses the private casino for high rollers with its games of black jack, craps, roulette, baccarat, dice games, a few slot machines and high stakes poker; the ground floor houses the exclusive strip club also catering for the rich and political party members; and unbeknown to most, located near the dressing rooms, is a locked and guarded door that leads to a separate smaller wing that houses the office and headquarters of the Russian Mafia known as 'Cerberus', the true owners of the club.

Grozny Zhukovsky, now 32 years of age, reclines behind his neat and tidy red mahogany desk, slowly fingering the ring given to him by Masha. Grozny is now a man to be wary of, a ruthless entrepreneur, head of a criminal organization; he has widespread influence and fears neither the police nor the judiciary.

He does legal and illegal business with both the private sector and the Kremlin. Where other oligarchies have fallen Grozny has risen and risen; Masha Zhukovsky saw to his future. Grozny's cold blooded reputation is well founded, as Dmitry Bessonov is about to find out.

The former drug pusher of a rival organization, who was recruited to 'Cerberus', has in fact been double dealing.

He now sits before the Devil, sweating and smoking cigarettes, pleading his case. "I swear I haven't done what you're accusing me of - I swear \- I'm loyal," he says. Grozny listens silently, fondling his ring, not looking at him, his mind seemingly elsewhere. "I don't know where you got your information from, but I haven't been stealing - I would never do that to you," Dmitry prattles on desperately. He keeps glancing nervously over his shoulder at the man standing behind him; Alexi Grekov, Grozny's right hand muscle and enforcer, a brute of a man, built like a brick shit house with an old diagonal scar running down the left side of his face from the temple to the neck, the result from some misunderstanding in the past, from Grozny, if the stories are to be believed. Whatever the case Grekov is loyal to Grozny and has no other allegiance, a fanatical devotion, and where it stems from is a complete mystery to all except employer and employee.

"Have you ever read Dante's Inferno?" Grozny asks completely out of the blue.

"What?" Dmitry replies with a questioning look.

"The Divine Comedy - an allegory telling the journey of Dante through hell, do you know it?"

Dmitry shakes his head, terrified. "Nyet."

"Then your education is somewhat lacking. Allow me to enlighten you. In this story hell is depicted as circles of suffering deep within the bowels of the Earth. Each circle represents a sin and within each circle or level are people who committed these sins," Grozny calmly informs him, his hands now clasped beneath his chin. "The first circle is Limbo," he continues matter-of-factly, "the second is Lust, the third is Gluttony, the fourth Greed, the fifth anger, the sixth Heresy, the seventh is the old favourite, Violence, while the eighth is Fraud and the ninth and last circle is of course...Treachery." Grozny finishes, turning his cold eyes upon the man shaking in the chair in front of him.

"Please I've done nothing," Dmitry pleads yet again. His frightened eyes darting all around the room like a trapped animal looking for a way out, but all he sees are the red panelled walls, with no windows, mostly decorated with a variety of swords, axes and maces from the ages of the past, from Medieval and Middle Ages Europe, feudal Japan, Mongol China; and even a Maquahuitl, a vicious looking weapon of the Aztec - a wooden club with obsidian blades along the edges capable of delivering a razor-sharp cut that could sever a head. It is a morbid collection of tools of death.

Dmitry lights another cigarette.

"Of course the ninth circle is saved for the worse mankind has to offer," Grozny continues, "Cain, who killed his own brother; Mordred, the slayer of King Arthur; Antenora, who betrayed his own city of Troy to the Greeks; Ptolemy, who invited Simon Maccabaeus and his sons to a banquet and then killed them; Brutus and Cassius for the treachery against Julius Caesar; and of course the number one of all time: Judas Iscariot. And in contrast to the popular image of hell as fiery, these traitors are frozen in a lake of ice. Now, Dmitry, you are not in the same league as these giants but you're a traitor."

"Grozny - no - I'm -"

"Silence," Grozny shouts, his voice instantly silencing Dmitry. "You've been given up, your partner in crime has betrayed you and now there is the devil to pay."

Dmitry is mute, a broken man awaiting judgement.

"Now, as I was saying, Dante's poem is in fact an allegory about the journey of the soul towards God, with the inferno describing the recognition and rejection of sin. So you see there is hope for you and you will need to make a choice, I shall give you that. And please, chose wisely."

Dmitry hesitantly opens his mouth. "What choice?"

"All in good time, by the way I saw you admiring my collection of weapons, what do you think of them?"

"Most...interesting," Dmitry stammers out.

"Indeed," replies Grozny standing and making his way toward the nearest war, "all these weapons have seen battle - this one for instance," he says as he points out a curved cavalry blade, "saw action in the Crimea at the famed charge of the light brigade. While this one," he moves to an axe match and wheellock weapon from the 16th century, a combination of fire arm and edged weapon, "a truly unique weapon, but doubtful that it was every truly effective in combat as the pointed fluke would have been more effective in an offensive role. But still a rare item, and as for this Claymore it bloodied itself at the siege of Gawilghur in December 1803 in India. And still sharp even today, perhaps one of the best crafted European swords. "

"Yes," Dmitry squeaks out.

"Which one do you like? Don't be afraid."

Dmitry doesn't know what game he is being forced to play, all he knows is that this man holds his life in his hands and that he better go along with what he wants.

It's his only hope of getting out alive. After a few moments he indicates the Maquahuitl.

"An excellent choice," Grozny informs him, "I paid a great deal to obtain it, there are very few originals in existence. When the Spanish wiped out the Aztecs they also obliterated just about everything associated with them. I must say Dmitry you have a good eye, you have chosen well the weapon I will use to kill you with."

Dmitry's goes bug eye as he is suddenly and forcefully grabbed from behind by the silent Grekov who holds him down in the chair. He tries to struggle but it is like there is a ton of bricks weighing down upon him.

Grozny removes the sinister Aztec weapon from its place upon the wall and turns to Dmitry.

"Nyet - nyet \- I'm innocent - I beg you," he pleads.

"Treachery is the worst of all sins," Grozny's voice rises in anger, "and it can only be answered in one way." Grozny stands before the whimpering Dmitry Bessonov and looks him straight in the eyes, and in that look, behind the eyes, two dark caverns appear to open and Dmitry sees death and nothing else. Grozny raises the obsidian edged weapon and slowly brings it across Dmitry's throat opening the jugular.

As Dmitry's life quickly ebbs away, Grozny, calmly, nonchalantly, replaces the weapon back on the wall and turns to Grekov. "Clean this up and dispose of the body."

Grekov nods obediently.

"Then we must be off," Grozny continues, "it is time to bring about the fall of the House of Ravenscroft."

Grozny respectfully kisses the Zhukovsky ring.

His time has come.

## CHAPTER 12

The Mediterranean

The three seater personal compact submarine moves gracefully through the clear water. Streaks of diffused light from above beam down upon the shiny gold colour submersible, with its glass ball shaped cabin, white soft level bound seats, providing the occupants an exceptional and comfortable view, unobstructed by top hatches and side pontoons.

The vessel is horizontal when underwater but is tail up when docked, for safe boarding of passengers. At 3.54m long and 2.502 m wide and a diving depth of 470 metres, the Trident, as it is called, is a perfect vehicle for exploring the underwater kingdom.

Sebastian Villon sits alone in the pilot's seat steering his personal sub.

Winter, from Vivaldi's Four Seasons, pipes in softly through the digital sound system.

Sebastian Villon is still in fairly good shape for his 58 years upon the earth, he now has a long sandy coloured beard to match his now long sandy locks of hair, the colour a result of his long time association with the ocean, and he now has the appearance of an old man of the sea. A large black Mana Stingray swims elegantly along the sandy bottom as a multitude of multi coloured and striped fish dart in and out of the rocks scattered on the seabed. An octopus, its chameleon skin changing colour darts past Sebastian's view followed by a long black eel.

Sebastian has come to love the sea even more over the years since the demise of his father. Since then he has thrived. With no one looking over his shoulder he turned 'Atlas Shipping Co.' into one of the biggest logistics companies in the world branching out into all forms of freight, air, land and sea, building his empire as he always dreamed he would.

But as much as he adores what he has created, his first love has become the sea, even more than his family. He fathered three daughters with his ex wife, Nikki Mitsotakis, no sons other than the dozen or so bastards he spawned outside of wedlock. With the death of his father the pressure of continuing the family bloodline fell away, allowing Sebastian to leave such matters to his sister and brother-in-law. His marriage, forced upon him by his father, died a slow death, the two drifting apart, having never really loved one another, despite their three daughters that Sebastian sees little of now. His many affairs with other women finally became too much for Nikki, who in a rage tried to stab her husband.

Sebastian fended her off and eventually got her committed for six months for psychiatric observation. When she was released she was a broken woman. A divorce followed and Nikki and her daughters went their separate ways from Sebastian. Of course being Greek a few of Nikki's relatives attempted to exact revenge against Sebastian who was force to hire bodyguards to protect him. But after he had a couple of his wife's cousins killed the attempts on his life soon ceased and any other discontent was dealt with by cold hard cash. Money has always gotten Sebastian what he wants, and to squash a few insignificant slugs along the way was nothing, he has done a lot worse over the years in his business dealings, especially with his brother Edmonde.

As his empire expanded Sebastian began to spend more and more time away from his Athens office tending to conduct the business from his various yachts, sailing around the world and exploring the beauty of its oceans. He also found a love and lust for gold and diamonds, and other precious metals which led to his current problems in Africa. But whenever he was feeling stress, Sebastian went beneath the waters of whatever ocean he was upon and instantly all the woes of his world faded away, for under the sea there was just him and nobody else.

Driving the Trident in such an alien world, Sebastian feels like a king surveying his realm. In the last twenty years he has navigated the world, swum beneath all the oceans and seas, explored sunken ships and ancient costal ruins of empires long gone to dust, collecting many treasures which he has gracefully donated to museums.

Apart of course from some rare items that he has kept for himself, especially from the sunken ruins off of Alexandria in Egypt. He has also swam with whales, dolphins, sharks, including hand feeding the Great White off of the coast of South Africa, which made him feel more alive than at any other time in his life.

Of course he has done his fair share of big game fishing which has also become a favourite past time of his.

Slowly but surely Sebastian Villon has been fulfilling his dreams and ambitions including those of the flesh in all its many perversions. To the moral minded he has and is leading a decadent life, like some debauched Roman emperor. But Sebastian has long given up caring what people think of him or how they judge him, he is leading the life he wants to live and to hell with the world. For Sebastian life is like a poker game - if you don't put anything in the pot, there won't be anything to take out. There have of course been the rough spots along the way. The financial crisis of 2008 was the big one. That really hit the shipping industry hard. Sebastian still recalls vividly his trip to Honk Kong and the sight of over three hundred oil tankers and cargo ships laying abandon at anchor, their owners out of business. If not for his blood ties he would have gone to the wall, but he was well protected and he got a big piece of the stimulus packages that followed.

Blatant robbery of the masses, but that's what sheep are for, to be fleeced. Sebastian, like all the other elites had his snout in the trough. And yet he is well aware just how perilously close the whole system came to toppling.

It was saved in the end, but as far as he is concerned it is merely on life support. The bloodlines would like to think that they are invincible and yet the financial system that they have created is nothing more than a hollow shell and some day it will crack open and crumble in on itself.

As for 'The Work of Ages' - Sebastian feels the time may have come and gone for it to be implemented, of course, he thinks, if he was in line for the prize things would be different. The order of the world is quickly changing and the powers-that-be aren't changing fast enough with it. It is also Sebastian's belief that the House of Ravenscroft is the wrong establishment to bring the great work to fruition, that his brother-in-law doesn't have what it takes. There's no doubt that Zane Ravenscroft is a cunning and shrewd operator who can be ruthless when required, but there is also another side to his nature - a softer side - a caring side. And so he thinks that what his family strived so hard for will not come to be, but as far as Sebastian is concerned he doesn't really care anymore one way or the other, whichever way the world evolves in the future he will continue doing what he wants.

Thinking of his brother-in-law gives Sebastian an unpleasant sensation in his gut, a nervous tension. In recent years he hasn't had many dealings with Zane, or Eleanor, for that matter, outside of business dealings, he has tried to be his own person, do things by himself and for the most part he's succeeded superlatively but the problem he has now may force him to call upon Zane and Sebastian is not looking forward to that prospect.

Sebastian steers the sub through a school of tuna. It's nearing the time for him to return to his yacht and the problems that face him up above. He slowly brings the Trident around and heads for the surface.

The submersible breaks top side alongside the 60m power yacht the 'Sea King'. The sleek looking boat is one of Sebastian's favourite big boy toys. It is both luxurious and stylish with four decks, nine crew and quarters, five guest cabins, the owner's suite with ensuite, a second stateroom, a salon with a second one called the sky lounge on the upper deck, two dining areas stern and aft and a marble white Jacuzzi with bar on the sun deck as well as all the modern connivances.

Sebastian is helped up onto the stern by an attractive female; she is one of the crew which are all women apart from the first mate, and one male bodyguard. Sebastian selected the women himself; all young, all beautiful, all different nationalities and all from impoverish backgrounds that he rescued them from.

He had them trained in the art of seamanship and underwater diving, paying them a lot of money to work for him with the up most devotion and loyalty, almost to the point of brainwashing. He likes to think of them as his mermaids. Sebastian loves to be surrounded by beautiful objects. Subconsciously it helps him blot out and make up for the ugliness of his childhood.

"Mr. Dingle's call came through, he is waiting for you," the Japanese crew member, Miyu, informs him as she slips on his towel robe.

"Thank you, I'm on my way," he replies cordially.

The other five female crew members are; Cosmina, from Romania; Chyu, from China; Amal, from Somalia; Jarmila, from Czechoslovakia; Sinta, from Indonesia; and Jaya, from India. There are no sexual relations between them and their captain, to fill his other urges these days, Sebastian hires call girls.

Money tends to get Sebastian anything he wants.

And it hasn't let him down yet.

He hopes that it never will.

He hastily makes his way into the nautical theme study that is situated near his quarters. A tablet stands on the desk with the face of Robert Dingle on the other end of the Skype call.

"Mr. Dingle," Sebastian says, sitting himself down behind the desk, "I trust you have good news for me."

Robert Dingle, a thirty something high powered international lawyer from the firm Slazer, Page & Drake, replies dramatically. "Their nailing our arse to the wall."

"That's not the news I wanted to hear," Sebastian replies abruptly.

"The evidence they've accumulated is quite compelling, you should have been more vigorous with your safety procedures."

"What's done is done Mr. Dingle," Sebastian says sharply, "I pay your firm a lot of money to handle the situation."

"Look, Mr. Villon, the ecological law suit, if we lose is going to cost you a king's ransom, but we're still in the fight. However, there are rumours now floating around that your company has been secretly funding the rebel movement. If that gets dragged in and proven then we don't have a snow ball's chance in hell," Dingle concludes earnestly.

"Don't concern yourself about rumors; just handle the action against us."

"That's what I'm doing; now I'm due back in court in an hour, so I'll have to go. I'm going to attempt to get another adjournment, we're going to need it to go through all the new testimonies they are throwing against us. But I implore you, if you can do anything to curtail your niece - now's the time to do it. She is like a bloody dog with a bone that won't let go," he tells Sebastian in exasperation.

"Alright - alright - I'll see what can be done," Sebastian agrees, "I'll get back to you as soon as possible. In the meantime just do the fucking job I'm paying you to do." Sebastian irritably closes the conversation. "Fucking lawyers," he bemoans.

Sebastian's glorious day is starting to take a turn for the worse.

Sebastian makes his way back up to the salon and pours himself a shot of whiskey. He quickly downs the contents and pours another. It seems that he will have to call his brother-in-law for help after all, something he didn't want to do but it seems the only way that something might be done about his irksome niece: Samantha Ravenscroft.

Sebastian's current problems stem from his gold mining company's operations in the West African country of Zanubula which has created significant ecological problems in the region and has now prompted a class action lawsuit by the indigenous community which is currently being heard in the International Court in Brussels.

To add salt to the wound his niece is leading the prosecution's case against him. And so Sebastian Villon picks up his mobile and dials the private number of Zane Ravenscroft hoping that he gets the message bank - instead he gets the man himself.

"A pleasure as always to talk to you," Sebastian cordially replies, "how's the family? And sis how is she?"

"Cut to the chase and tell me what you want."

"You're never one for chit-chat are you? Very well then I'm calling about your daughter Samantha."

A dangerous tone comes into Zane's voice. "What about her?"

"She's causing me a lot of trouble."

"You've bought this on yourself."

"I see."

"I hope you do."

"I'm not here to argue the pros and cons of my business practices, but rather to see if you can rein in your daughter, or at least make her willing to negotiate so as we can come to some suitable arrangement. She is being totally unreasonable, after all blood is supposed to be thicker than water."

"Surely you haven't forgotten that Sam and I don't always see eye to eye on many things anymore - if we ever really did," Zane adds with some regret, "so I'm not sure how I can help you out. Like I told your brother, you're going to have to weather the storm. There's just too much scrutiny on everything at the moment to start making waves."

"I'm not asking for a song and dance. We have done great things since our two families joined forces and in that time I've helped you out when you've been in a jam, managing to get things through customs for you," Sebastian points out. "And in that time I've hardly asked you for anything, but now I am. Also with the shit that Edmonde is going through the last thing 'Ravenscroft Holdings' needs is another in-law under the public microscope. Who knows what might come out?"

"Is that a threat?"

"Just friendly advice," Sebastian remarks neutrally, "we've all got skeletons in the closet and none of us want them to see the light of day. Now my current crisis can easily and quietly go away with none the wiser."

"What have you got in mind?" Zane inquires.

"Get Samantha to either drop the lawsuit or to work out some settlement. I'm not unreasonable you know."

"Okay, I have to go to Brussels tomorrow on business with the World Bank, so I'll pop across and see her. But I can't guarantee anything."

"All I'm asking is for you to try," a relieved Sebastian says.

"But please keep your shit together and keep your god damn business in order - is that understood?" Zane says in a slightly threatening tone of voice that Sebastian doesn't fail to notice.

"I hear you Zane, I hear you."

"Good, I'll be in touch."

The line goes dead. Sebastian tosses his phone down on the sofa. He pours another drink. His hand is slightly shaking.

It always does after speaking to Zane. It remains him too much of his confrontations with his tyrannical father. _But it's done_ \- he thinks. And if Zane doesn't handle matters then other steps will have to be taken. Sebastian contemplates what his next move might be in Zanubula, for he intends to have all of its lovely gold. _Increase funding to the rebels and start an all out civil war if need be_ \- he ponders. In the end he'll still have the gold and the troublesome elements can be cleansed.

He smiles greedily.

After all Sebastian is a Villon and that's exactly what his rotten corpse of a father would do.

### CHAPTER 13

The Formula One car speeds around the private race track of Zane Ravenscroft. Its tyres gripping the sharp bends as Zane himself sits behind the wheel, making sure that the F1 car stays at the correct speed so the tyres become hot and grip the road is always a test, but Zane has never shirked a challenge yet.

Coming out of the bend he deftly changes gear and speeds up.

The pit crew watch and monitor the F1 from the pit lane. A couple shoot each other bemused looks as the driver appears to be pushing the motor car faster than normal. But it's his money that pays the bills. Zane of course paid five million dollars to Ferrari for the Formula One car; although he technically owns the car he doesn't keep it, rather whenever he wants to use it Ferrari will ship the car to him along with a professional pit crew.

So, if Zane wants to kill himself, some of the crew contemplate, he's paying for the privilege. But in all the years Zane has been doing this he has yet to have a crash - a few spin outs - and a near miss or two \- but otherwise he is quite a good driver. Zane has always enjoyed the thrill of going fast and it didn't get much quicker than this - upon the ground anyway. Zane is really pushing himself today trying to work off his frustrations by whipping around the track like some possessed whirling dervish. Having only gotten off the phone with Sebastian over an hour ago, perhaps it wasn't the wisest move to then get behind the wheel of a vehicle that can go from 0 to 300km/h in 8.6 seconds.

Zane loves it.

The world rushes passed him in a blur.

The wind rips into his helmet like some wild beast wanting nothing more than to tear it from his head.

The roar of the engine filling his ears.

The smell of the oil filling his nose.

The car vibrates as if it were going to fly apart.

The squeal of the tyres.

The seat belt keeping him secure.

But the aerodynamics of the F1 keeps it on the track.

It has been a rough few years for Zane and anytime he could get behind the wheel of a fast car was always a pleasure and he found himself having too few pleasures of late.

So he has to take them where he finds them.

And this is one of them.

He has built up quite the collection of high performance cars over the years, his prized possessions being the two fastest cars in the world; the Hennessey Venom GT and the Bugatti Veyrnon Super Sport; as well as a number of classic antiques including a Tucker, a '69 Corvette Sting Ray and a '67 Ford Mustang to name but a few; there's just something cool about old cars - the power - the beauty - the sheer majesty of a machine that's recognized and respected the world over.

The F1 tears down the straight at great speed.

The world zooms by in a flash.

And Zane's mind wanders.

Zane tries to keep his thoughts on the road but the troubles surrounding him are encroaching upon his concentration; Edmonde, Sebastian and now Samantha; all problems that need to be dealt with.

Out of all his children Samantha was the most strong willed and independent of them all, which has secretly made him very proud but on the other hand has caused him more headaches than drinking ever has - and he can feel one of those migraines slowly creeping up upon him. Zane would like nothing more than to just forget about it, but what she is doing now could have serious repercussions against them all and that can't be allowed.

Zane is in a dilemma.

Whether from lack of concentration or a simple error in judgement, Zane takes the next corner too sharply; his front left tyre hits gravel and causes him to spin out and off the track. The F1 doing several figure eights before coming to a halt in a cloud of dust and grass. Zane is none the worse for wear and so he thumps his hand upon the wheel in anger at making such a stupid mistake.

"Shit," he curses.

But there is something other than anger he feels, it's a sensation he hasn't felt in many years; the cold fingers of fear reaching towards the back of his neck. That old enemy that he has always beaten when it has shown its ugly face was back. Where it comes from he has no idea but it has always served him as a warning in the past, for every time he has felt it something bad has inevitably happened.

Zane is left wondering what it portents.

### CHAPTER 14

The Ravenscroft Children

Samantha

Avalon, the Hamptons, 1991

Samantha Ravenscroft sits despondently upon her fairy princess bed in her pyjamas.

Her eyes red from crying and her cheeks sticky from dried tears, yet her cheek nevertheless is still sore from her mother's hand. It's the first time the six year old ever felt the harsh sting of a slap. It's as if her world has come to an end.

"Sam."

Samantha looks up at the towering figure of her father standing in the open doorway. He smiles. "I heard your mother got angry with you today." Samantha nods. "I see, what happened?" Samantha shrugs, remaining silent. "That bad, huh?" Zane makes his way over to his daughter and sits beside her. "You know, when your mum gets mad at me I don't feel like talking either. But she doesn't mean what she says and she's sorry that she hit you. You're mum's got a lot on her mind at the moment."

"I understand," she says, "it's just..."

"It hurts I know," Zane comforts her. He puts his arm around her and pulls her close to him. "But the pain and hurt will go away and by tomorrow you will have forgotten all about this." Samantha sniffles. "Grownups get mad and angry and sometimes they lash out or say things they don't mean and parents are no different especially your mother and me. A lot of people depend on us and with that comes an insane amount of pressure and it comes to the boil at times. And today with your mother was one of those times but that doesn't mean she doesn't love you, you must never think that, you'll just have to be patient with her at times that's all, do you understand?"

Samantha nods. "Yes daddy."

"That's my girl. You feel better?" She nods. "Good, now, don't you think it's about time you were asleep."

Samantha gets under the blankets. "Daddy."

"Yes."

"I love you."

These simple words bring a lump to Zane's throat.

He wants to be a good father but he still isn't sure that he is capable of being one. But he intends to do his best and expressions of affection are a good place to start, a concept almost alien amongst the Illuminati families. He affectingly strokes the side of his daughter's cheek and replies in kind. "I love you to. Now get some sleep." He kisses her on the cheek and exits the room shutting the door and turning the light off.

But Samantha won't forget what she overheard her parents talking amongst themselves before her father came to check upon her. Samantha had snuck downstairs and hid just outside the library door wanting to hear what her mother would be telling her father about what happened. Although she didn't hear all the conversation she did hear such strange words as surrogate mother - biological - the meaning of which she didn't understand, but words that she would remember, and in time come to know their meaning, and what that entails, and what she would learn she would keep to herself.

Samantha loves her parents in particular her father who in her young eyes can do no wrong, but even that will change in time.

Things always do.

It is inevitable.

The International Court of Justice, The Hague, Netherlands, Present Day

"The ecological damage done to the surrounding water supply of the Murarbarra region is now undeniable as shown in the UNEP toxicological report and the Bramston environmental study commissioned by the Tarax Institute. The reports show categorically both the environmental and economic damage done to both the land and the people of Zanubula. I would also like to draw your honours attention to the World Health Organization's Van Cleff paper which points out the severity of the health problems suffered by the indigenous population in the Murarbarra region and I would like one passage in particular to be mentioned in the record and I quote: "The spate of birth deformities and stillborns can now be linked to the toxic substances being flushed into the Wantunga River from the 'Endeavour Walhalla Gold Mine', especially the industrial cleaning agent TXL97, banned in all EU countries, due to its underlying mercury content, furthermore..."

Robert Dingle's intestines were beginning to tighten up as he sits in the public chamber of the Peace Palace listening to Samantha Victoria Ravenscroft nail his clients balls to the wall. He has put up a good fight but the tide has most defiantly turned and he was now being pulled out to sea. The fact that this hearing was being conducted in chamber with four judges and not the full bench was a coup and feather in Dingle's cap, but that initial triumph has quickly given away to defeat. Robert Dingle and his counsel of five legal eagles have used up every conceivable legal avenue or argument open to them and now there was nowhere else to go. Robert Dingle's only course of action now was to stretch proceedings out and play for more time in the hope that something could be worked out between the warring factions.

_It's all I got_.

Even though she is the opposition, Robert Pringle couldn't help but admire and respect Samantha Ravenscroft and can only wish that he had her on his team. Intelligent, articulate, professional, were just a few adjectives that summed up the enemy; and of course beauty, Robert Pringle knows its chauvinistic of him to think of her in that way but even beneath her black court robes and white wig her beauty, glamour and style shone through.

_She has class_.

Robert Dingle envies her.

What with her supermodel looks and figure, her perfectly shaped lips and dark brown eyes and her flawless nose and cheekbones and raven black hair, made one almost wish that they were being prosecuted by her. At only 31 years of age, Samantha Ravenscroft has risen to become the top prosecutor of 'The Heinlein Foundation', an international law firm, amongst other philanthropic pursuits, headqaurted in Brussels; and by all accounts Samantha achieved this distinguished position off of her own blood, sweat, tears and talent, with no help from her famous father. Robert Pringle can't help but smile inwardly at the fact that someone who hails from the Ravenscroft family could be so bloody descent and righteous, it was a paradox to rival the chicken or the egg and which one came first.

"Furthermore the recent growing civil unrest taking place in Zanubula can now be directly contributed to the private security firm 'Archangel' that also provides the security force for the 'Endeavour Walhalla' mines," Samantha continues purposefully, "which is now becoming an unstable factor in the recent clashes outside the 'Endeavour Walhalla' mine located in the Murarbarra region which has led to the death of twenty-eight civilians including six women and three children..."

"Objection!" Robert Pringle almost shouts as he jumps up from his seat. "The recent violence reported in the Murarbarra region has nothing whatsoever to do with the 'Endeavour Walhalla Group'."

"I beg to differ," Samantha counters. Giving the opposition a stare of defiance and contempt.

"The incident has been greatly over exaggerated," Robert Pringle continues, "and anyway the said clash took place between civilians and a few members of 'Archangel' who were provoked and reacted when their lives were put at risk - and I wish to emphasise that their response was of their own volition and not sanctioned by the management or anyone associated with the 'Endeavour Walhalla Group' for that matter. Furthermore the management of the Murarbarra mining facility have been cooperating fully with the local authorities in this most unfortunate incident."

_Working with the authorities you've paid off you mean_ : Samantha thinks quietly too herself, but says instead. "Then I would like to submit sworn testimony from local workers and several foremen at the Murarbarra site indicating that management did indeed have full knowledge - and sanctioned - the use of deadly force if any protests got in the way of halting production."

"Again I object, this is a hearing on the supposed environmental issues caused by my clients mining operations and not matters of civil unrest - of which I might add Zanubula is well known for, giving the many bloody tribal violence associated with the country. Violence contributed by the lack of jobs, health care and money, all of which the mining operations of 'Endeavour Walhalla' have help alleviate."

But Samantha doesn't vacillate and remains steadfast in her argument. "Your honours, Article 217 of the international law act in the case of England v Zimbabwe allows for the establishment of cause and effect..."

"Irrelevant."

"To you Mr. Pringle but not to the people of Zanubula."

"Counsels will restrain from raising their voices in chamber," the leading Judge from France proclaims, "this isn't the WWF. Furthermore this bench is well aware of the law and doesn't need it quoted to it."

"I beg your pardon you honours," Samantha humbly replies, "I was just merely pointing out that there is legal precedent for making such a connection."

"Yes," the Judge from Japan agrees, but adds, "but such a new procedure would have to be a separate hearing, if that's what your client intends to pursue."

"They do you honours."

"Then you consul will have your work cut out for you," the Japanese Judge says to Mr. Pringle, "but in the meantime I advise you to stick to the environmental issues that this chamber was set up for," he points out to Samantha.

"I understand your honours," she respectfully replies.

The four Judges have a quiet word amongst themselves for several minutes.

Samantha waits patiently.

Robert Pringle less so.

Finally the leading Judge from France addresses the two lawyers. "Giving this new amount of information being presented today we shall adjourn for one week to allow time for this bench to examine it thoroughly. But when we reconvene on the seventeenth it will be to hear the final closing statements from both parties and this will be the last adjournment," he emphasis to Robert Pringle, "before a judgement will be rendered in this case. Case adjourned."

He brings down the gavel.

A short time later Samantha stands on the steps of the grand and elegant Peace Palace amongst her legal counsel. Even under an overcast sky the splendour and grandeur of a place built to end war stands out. For Samantha the symbolism is not lost on her for a war is what she is hoping to avoid for that is what she fears Zanubula is headed for, yet a victory against the 'Endeavour Walhalla' would defiantly put a spanner in the works. So she tells her team to thoroughly go over again all the affidavits and statements to make sure that nothing is over looked. She also congratulates them on a job well done so far but stresses there is a lot more work to do yet. Samantha has the respect and loyalty of her team, traits she has always tried to adhere to, to her, leading by example is the only way to get others to follow suit.

As she is about to head off she is approached by Wannab Toottie, an elderly chief representing the people of Zanubula who have brought this action against the multinational company destroying their land.

"Miss Ravenscroft it seems we did well today," the chief smiles broadly in his regal blue and cream African print Dashiki-Agbada clothes.

"Yes chief Wannab, very good. I'm confident that we shall win this. But even if it does go our way getting them to pay for their crimes will be another fight. But we have right and public opinion on our side and a victory will force the EU into action against a European company. In fact I fully expect the defence to approach us in the next few days with an offer to settle - a substantial offer I'm sure as they're up against the ropes."

"You're a great woman Miss Ravenscroft; my people will forever be in your debt," he offers sincerely.

"Nonsense. Now when they make the offer I will be sure to let you know right away."

"What will you advise?"

"In my opinion you shouldn't settle," she tells him earnestly, "there's nowhere for them to go, we've got them. So rest easy and I'll let you know as soon as they contact us and we can discuss it more fully then. You and your people will have much to consider and you must do it carefully."

"Bless you and may God keep you well."

"Thank you," she replies happily, "now I must go but we'll talk in the next couple of days." With a friendly handshake Samantha leaves in high spirits. She makes her way to her sporty silver-white Mercedes/Benz SLS AMG, opens the door, tosses in her briefcase, hops in and guns the engine. She quickly pulls away for the two hour drive back to the apartment in Brussels. It's a drive she always enjoys making going into Belgium via the Escaut River and into Brussels itself. But today the drive will be all the more pleasant for she has had a good day.

She turns on the radio and finds some easy listening to help make the ride more pleasurable. That is until she receives a text on her mobile from her father saying that he will be in Brussels tomorrow and would like to see her. "Damn," she curses softly. She knows that there is only one reason he is coming to see her now and that is because of her uncle Sebastian - the real power behind 'Endeavour Walhalla'. _Well, he must be really desperate_ she thinks happily trying to put a positive spin on the pending visit.

Samantha hasn't seen her father in nearly six months, the last time was when she was in the States on business. For the last several years she has been living and working in Europe where she has been preoccupied with her career and although she may not have seen a lot of her family in the flesh in recent times she has stayed in contact talking to her father or mother at least once a month. The truth of the matter is that Samantha enjoys the freedom of being away from the family business to pursue her own life as much as possible, a fact her father encouraged in her while growing up.

But the family ties are strong and Samantha knows she has stepped over the line in pursuing this case for justice for the people of Zanubula.

But despite all the different elements associated with this case, when the facade was stripped away it was a case against her uncle, Sebastian Villon, the real power behind the mining operations and the growing unrest sweeping the West African country. So in comes her father. For no doubt as the proceedings turn against her uncle it threatens to drag in 'Ravenscroft Holdings' and that is something her father would vigorously fight not to happen.

"Shit."

Despite the fact that she isn't looking forward to the coming meeting she has no intention of backing down. She and her father will sit down and talk. But Samantha was more concerned about other aspects of her life that she has kept hidden from her family and that perhaps now is the time to reveal them. She has been meaning to do it for quite a while now and this seems as good a time as any.

Still, it hasn't always been easy growing up a Ravenscroft.

But growing up never is.

Avalon, the Hamptons, 2000

It wasn't exactly an ultimatum taking place beneath the rose covered rotunda upon the lush green grounds of Avalon, but that's how Samantha sees it. As far as she was concerned her parents were trying to nail down her future.

"But I've just turned fifteen," she protests, "it's not as if my life is over."

"But you lack focus," Zane points out.

"My grades are up - I'm in the top three of all my classes and I've told you that I'm interested in going to law school."

"That's not what your father and I mean," Eleanor puts in her two bits, "all these causes you're getting involved in and attending rallies and getting your picture in the papers, what were you thinking?"

"But it wasn't in a bad way and I didn't embarrass the family or anything."

"No, but some of them are in conflict with our business interests."

"But isn't that a good thing dad," Samantha argues, "the fact that I am protesting against some of our business dealings shows the world that a Ravenscroft does care about what happens to the disenfranchised or the environment."

"You silly girl, your behaviour shows weakness to the other families," Eleanor scolds. "Decorum, the way we behave in public projects to the other families that our house is in order. We might rule the nest now but there are many who would still like to topple us. And you're allowing the opportunity of having yourself caught in a compromising situation - don't you see that."

"So what, I'm suppose to just stay locked up in the tower like Rapunzel waiting for her Prince Charming," she disdainfully spouts. "You know how I hate that kind of shit."

"Watch your manners," Eleanor warns, "you weren't born in a barn although you act like it at times. I don't know where you get these idiotic notions from, it certainly isn't from us. You're a Ravenscroft, so start acting like one."

"It's my life not yours."

"You're not an adult yet and you'll obey our rules is that understood?"

"You're just a control freak. You want me to do what you want and not what I want."

"Yelling isn't going to help," Zane tells them both.

"Why not, it's seems how best we communicate."

"Sam - that's enough," her father says to his daughter in a firm but slightly menacing voice that bodes no argument. It's a tone that many have heard and regretted over the years when dealing with Zane Ravenscroft.

"But I know what you want of me," Samantha says calming down, "I know that you want me to be prim and proper, do what's right for the family, get married, make babies, further our goals. But that's so unfair, there's so much more I want to do in my life."

"And you can, look at your mother, hasn't she been running one of the largest private banks in the world and that's not just because of who she is. You can't run an organization like that on your name alone, you need the know how to do so. You can be like your mother and you can have it all."

"Listen to your father, Sam," Eleanor tells her, "you won't find a wiser person or a better tutor. And I know I've always emphasised the importance of the family and the continuation of the bloodline, but that doesn't mean that you can't have it all. There was a time not long ago Sam when we were at each other's throats, the houses of Ravenscroft and Villon, and each had allies all warring against one another in a dog eat dog state-of-mind. Terrible things were done. But your father and I put a stop to that and we united the warring factions. But the old hatreds and vile is still present."

Samantha nods silently.

Sophia continues. "Make no mistake there are still those who will leap upon any sign of weakness or discontent we show them. United is the only way forward."

"I understand what you're saying mother. I've no illusions about who we are or what our family has done or what it is still trying to achieve with the world. I just want to find my own way amongst it all, to shape my own place in the order. How I'm going to do that I'm not completely sure yet but it's slowly crystallising. Mum, dad, I love you both, you know that and I'm not going to do anything to harm the family I just have this urge to do things as much as possible off my own bat. Call it a destiny if you want, I mean is it so hard to understand that I want to be my own person amongst this giant machine we're all a part of."

Samantha's words register most profoundly with Zane. He sees and hears in the words of his daughter much of himself. Independent, resourceful, imaginative. Zane well remembers a similar such conversation with his own parents. _And they say history never repeats_.

"I think it's wonderful that you want to find your own way, Sam, to be your own person, because you will be a leader of men and women in some capacity, that's inevitable. And being involved in political or environmental causes is admirable and can be quite beneficial to our goals provided they are the right ones that do not clash with the families' interests and you will curtail your enthusiasm to those causes and none other and this is not negotiable. Is that perfectly clear?"

Samantha is going to argue, she wants to argue, but she knows better. "I understand."

"We all have a role to play, Sam, and I have no doubt that yours will be an important one," he reassures her, "and you'll find it in time. Now, you promise to spend some time with your Aunt Margaret, yes?"

"Yes."

"Alright, she'll be waiting, now go."

Samantha reluctantly exits the stage.

"I honestly don't know where she gets her stubbornness from," Eleanor proclaims in exasperation.

Zane smiles. "She has a Ravenscroft and Villon as her parents what else would you expect."

This also brings a smile and laugh to Eleanor. "I suppose so."

"Perhaps I've been too lenient, but she's a good kid; she's just lacking real focus at the moment, that's all."

"I agree, but we must be watchful, out of them all I fear that Sam will be the one that makes the wrong choices. She will soon be an adult and it'll be a good idea if I start spending more time with her over the next couple of years."

"I think that's a great idea," Zane agrees as he puts his arm tentatively on her shoulder.

Eleanor pulls away. "Our children's problems is one thing, our problems are entirely something else."

Hampton Heights Country Club, 2002

Out of the top ten private country clubs for the rich and richer, the Hampton Heights Club ranks in the top five. The number one in the world of course being Heather Hills in Windsor, Scotland.

But that said, Hampton Heights is no slouch with its pro golf course, swimming pool, tennis courts, day spa, club house, bar, indoor/outdoor restaurant, reception hall and private suites. All its delicious luxurious at call for its exclusive members and those lucky or honoured enough to be invited as guests. But for all its five star facilities the club is also a social hub for the wealthy families of America, a place to gather, gossip, scheme, manipulate and conduct illicit affairs, all in first class style.

The interior of the day spa is decorated Zen style, an environment of relaxation and tranquillity, a place to unwind and recharge; or in Rosemary Ravenscroft's case, to elaborate on her love life. She lies on her stomach upon a massage table alongside her sister Margaret and her nephew's wife Eleanor. Three female masseurs' attend them, busy plying their trade.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Margaret lectures, "you're a degenerate Rosemary, always have been and always will be."

"You're just crabby because you're not getting any," Rosemary replies.

"Please my dear remember your manners in public, you were taught them, remember" Margaret chides.

"Tish tosh, these talented young people working their magic upon our decrepit bodies know what it's like to be young, unlike some people I know."

"Speak for yourself Margaret," Eleanor pipes up.

"I wasn't referring to you my sweet, just the fossil on the other side of me," Rosemary corrects.

"Please act your age."

"What's age got to do with anything? Young or old we all need to enjoy the pleasures of life why we can."

"It's true no one can stay young forever, but some manage to act like children all their lives."

Rosemary raises her eyebrows in disdain. "Please darling, spare us all your higher-than-thou philosophies and let me set you up with a nice young buck that'll rock you all night long, what do you say?"

"I've always suspected you're adopted."

Rosemary smiles warmly at getting yet another rise out of her sister, she enjoys so much the jests and verbal sparring with her more prudish sister over the years, and truth be told so does Margaret. Rosemary's smile turns into a joyful laugh which quickly turns into a nasty cough.

"Excuse me - pardon me," Rosemary says, "I must be getting a bug."

"You should get that checked out, you've been coughing all week," Margaret tells her.

Rosemary dismisses such concerns. "I haven't had a cold in over six years, this is just on the fringe of one, and it'll go away." Rosemary gets her coughing under control with a glass of water giving to her by her masseur. A cough that is the first sign of the cancer that will eventually claim her life.

"Your great aunts are quite a pair aren't they," Juliet Walker tells her friend Samantha.

"There one of the great undiscovered comedy duos of all time, right up there with Martin and Lewis and Abbott and Costello," Samantha replies fondly.

Juliet Walker, part of the Walker family sits in a reclining chair next to Samantha, both wearing peach bath robes with their faces covered in mud cream with slices of Kiwi fruit over their eyes and towels wrapped around their heads.

"I feel like such a fool when we do this," Samantha complains to her friend, "I mean does it really do the skin any good?"

"Of course it does, my mother's been having these for years and she still looks twenty-one," Juliet replies and adds, "and that's not including the face lifts."

"Your step mother is twenty-one."

"Twenty-two - but don't tell her."

"So you're seeing Brad Cooper," Samantha says making conversation, "how's that working out for you?"

"He's alright I suppose, but I'm growing bored of him."

"Oh, why is that?"

"He's so committed to being on the Forbes top one hundred list that he doesn't pay me any attention."

"You're only seventeen, Juliet, and he's what, twenty-seven. You should find someone closer to your own age."

"I know, they're much easy to manipulate. But what's on offer is not worth pursuing. You know what their like."

Samantha does indeed, vain, materialistic, greedy, cold and in most cases cruel. It's like they are all carbon copies from the same template, cut from the same cookie mould. She of course hangs out with such boys giving who she is and her background, but she has yet to meet anyone who inspires her, let alone she could fall in love with. And if you went outside their social circle and saw someone not of their kind or class and heaven forbid actually fall in love with them, the reaction was as if you suddenly contracted leprosy. Oh it was alright to have flings with the 'other kind' but to actually have genuine feelings, fall in love or actually marry an outsider was taboo. The children of the elite were mostly just pawns to be used or abused by their families in the great game - or in 'The Work of Ages'.

Samantha's mother was already trying to push her into the arms of Juliet's brother, Randolph, someone she has known since childhood, and although he is a cut above the rest, he is just a friend as far as she is concerned.

There are no feelings of love or lust there, just affection for a friend. Samantha is determined not to have herself saddled, or sold off to the highest bidder. If Samantha marries it will be to someone of her own choosing and if at all possible out of love. Samantha is very much like her father, Zane; she is going to do things her way or not at all.

"What are you planning to wear to Josie's party?"

"Sorry - what was that?"

"Friday night, the party, don't tell me you've forgotten about it?"

"No, of course not," Samantha says remembering Marilyn Pringle's eighteenth birthday party this Friday night which was intended to last the whole weekend at the Pringle mansion in Rhode Island. Seventy-two hours of raging; music, a live band, booze, drugs and promiscuity. "Oh I was thinking maybe that red sequin Stefan I bought last week."

"You look so hot in that," Juliet says with envy, "you'll outshine the birthday girl. She'll be furious - I love it. Now if you could just help me work out what I should wear I'll be ever so grateful. After all you're the stylish one out of the two of us."

"Of course I will, what a friends for," Samantha tells her with put on enthusiasm.

Law School

Samantha would follow her interests and attend Harvard Law School and this time would truly become her formative years.

Pursuing the J.P. (Juris Doctor) Program; a three year course that gives students not only the intellectual foundations for legal study but also the opportunity to hone their studies on areas of particular interest through advanced classes, clinics and writing projects.

Samantha Ravenscroft thrives in this environment.

She excels in the problem solving workshops that grapple with real world challenges involving complex patterns and encompassing diverse bodies of law, including the international arena. In addition to this Samantha participates in the reading groups that offer the opportunity to interact with faculty in informal settings outside the classroom. They are led by faculty members who often focus on areas of particular personal interests to the students.

It's at this time that Samantha meets Professor of Law Jonathan Denton; a 52 year old teacher that has an ever lasting impact on Samantha during her first year at law school. He inspires her with his rhetorical and philosophising about the legal profession. His lectures and informal talks about the ethics of the law and those that practise it strike a chord within Samantha appealing to the best angels of her being. He opens her eyes to how the law should be impartial and render judgement accordingly, befitting the crime, but he also emphasises that punishment should be tempered with appropriate mercy and how that those that practise law can use it for the benefit of those that truly need the protection and justice that law can offer them.

"Where law ends, tyranny begins," was one of his favourite quotes. Samantha would spend many hours debating all aspects of the law, including the role of lawyers in the legal profession and whether they should be doing it for a fee or rather out of a sense of justice. A lawyer shouldn't always be willing to spend the client's last dollar to prove he's right," Professor Denton would tell Samantha during one of their many discussions.

"But a lawyer needs to live," she often argued, " _Pro bono_ is one thing but the world doesn't run like that."

"So true, today those that have the money to buy the better lawyer will more likely than not win. In a court of law justice favours the wealthy, there's no denying that. As for truth and justice, they've just become words with no real meaning anymore."

"But that will never change."

"Only if those that practice or enforce judgement change. It's a crazy and radical concept, I know, but there it is."

"I can't see that ever happening."

"But if someone begins others will follow and if enough were to change then the whole system would change with them. It's a dream, I know, but those that work within the system to alter it will change it. It's like when you toss a single pebble upon the still water and see all the ripple effects that spread out from that one splash."

Although Professor Denton's views are a bit idealistic compared to the way the world is run they nevertheless have an effect on his student. Samantha begins to see that as a lawyer she can really help people. She just has to find the correct avenue to pursue it in. And the notion of a Ravenscroft actually helping people is a revolutionary one. It flies in the face of the elite bloodlines philosophies. But Samantha, despite the world she was born into, has always had a conscience and her empathy for others was never beaten or purged out of her, like others she knows of and she has her parents to thank for that - especially her father.

In the second and third years of law school, Samantha, like other students, shapes her own course of study that align with her own interests and she chooses International and Comparative Law as her main focus, deciding that it is in this field that she could make a difference.

Samantha is very popular and has many friends and acquaintances during this time, including Xavier Ross, and for a few months he and she were an item. Xavier is from old money, his family having made their fortune from railways and mining. But nothing serious ever developed between the two and they parted as friends on good terms. Although there were other men in her life, her main focus was her studies.

On leaving law school she got a job as a junior assistant district attorney for a few months followed by a stint at a prestigious Manhattan law firm until finally she was offered a position at 'The Heinlein Foundation', an opportunity that she pounced upon for here was the chance for her to do some real good.

Of course this didn't go down too well with her father.

They argued. Zane thought that his daughter was doing the wrong thing and that she should be using her gift to further the family's interests and that didn't include trying to save the world. But Samantha was adamant and she wouldn't back down. She believed that what she wanted to do wouldn't be in conflict with 'Ravenscroft Holdings' interests. But even though Zane thought that his daughter was making a mistake and wasting her talents, he secretly admired her courage and zest, and besides, out of his children, it wasn't her daughter he had in mind of being a world leader who would bring about 'The Work of Ages'.

Samantha moved to Brussels and in no time rose to great heights at 'The Heinlein Foundation' proven herself in many humanitarian cases against individuals, corporations and countries that eventually lead to her current case involving her uncle.

At first Samantha wasn't going to take the case but her sense of justice won out and she also didn't approve of her uncle's business practices, and the fact that they have never saw eye to eye hasn't helped their relationship. Like her uncle Edmonde, Sebastian didn't spend a whole lot of time at Avalon when she and her brothers were growing up.

She knew that there was always animosity between her uncles and her mother and her father for that matter. She didn't know the pertinent facts of where it stemmed from other than it had something to do years ago, before she was born, with the joining of the Houses of Ravenscroft and Villon. Her parents never spoke about the before times and she never asked. _Best to let sleeping dogs lie_.

It was also in Brussels that she met Jean Paul.

Brussels, Present Day

Samantha enters the luxurious second floor apartment situated in the heart of Brussels near the Grand Palace which stands majestic through the window.

"I'm home," she calls out as she tosses her handbag onto the sofa.

"We're in here," a male voice replies from the modern kitchen. Jean Paul is busy spoon feeding their two year old son Eric ( _Atlan_ ). Jean Paul is a tall, dark and handsome French man in his late twenties with curly black hair and bedroom brown eyes; an architect by trade he and Samantha have been together for four years.

"Hi sweetie," Samantha says in greeting. She kisses Jean Paul on the cheek and then Eric. "What trouble have you two been up to today?"

"The usual," Jean Paul informs her, "smelly nappies and story time. How was your day?"

"Good, real good," she says brightly but with a hint of hesitation.

"What's wrong?"

"My father is coming by tomorrow to see me," she tells him almost ashen face.

"Oh."

"Exactly, oh."

"What are you going to do?"

"Have a shower \- I just feel so sweaty."

"That's as good as anything."

"I thought so."

"After I finish with Eric I'll start dinner."

"Fantastic."

Samantha gives the men in her life another kiss before making her way to the bedroom.

"Well, looks like your _mere_ got a lot on her plate," he tells Eric who smiles back with an expression of unconditional love.

Forty minutes later Samantha is in the baby's room rocking Eric gently in her arms as she sets about the task of putting him to sleep. She is gentle and soothing and the love and affection she has for her child is clearly evident on her face and in her posture. Her little family is the centre of her universe.

" _Golden slumber kiss your eyes_ ," she sings softly to Eric, " _smiles await you when you rise, sleep, pretty baby, do not cry, and I'll sing you a lullaby; care you not, therefore sleep, sleep, pretty darling, do not cry, and I will sing you a lullaby_." As the calming words fill little Eric's head he drifts off to sleep. Samantha kisses him before placing him in the crib. She stares down at this tiny little person who has come to mean everything to her. "Sweet dreams my love."

After putting the baby to bed Samantha goes to the dining room and sits down to the honey pumpkin and sage agnolotti dish that Jean Paul has lovingly made for her, this of course being her favourite pasta dish. A bottle of red wine - Pinot Blanc - accompanying it only tops off the dining experience.

"Smells wonderful," she sniffs. She takes a sip of the wine before getting stuck into the delicious tucker. The lights are dimmed and the scented candles give the room a relaxing mood while Bach's Air on the G string plays quietly on the stereo in the background. "You sure know how to treat a woman."

"Just you," Jean Paul tells her. He sits opposite her drinking the wine and eating. "So, what are you planning to do?"

"Tell him of course."

"Why now and not before?"

"You have no idea what being a Ravenscroft means, how important the family and bloodlines are," Samantha explains, "who you can and cannot marry. We've been all through this."

"I know, I know, and I respect your decision, I love you. I was just curious about your timing."

"My father would find out sooner or later, and this case with my uncle has just made sure it will be sooner, that's all. Its better this way, we'll talk and he'll have to deal with it."

The secret Samantha has kept from her father and her family is her marriage to Jean Paul and their child. As far as the elite families are concerned Jaen Paul was the 'other kind' - a commoner. So she has kept this part of her life secret, hidden away, knowing full well the implications this will have on her relationship with her family. And as for her child that is a Pandora's Box waiting to be open.

"Do you want me to be here?" Jean Paul asks.

"Yes, but you have got your work tomorrow and that's important."

"I can cancel my flight."

"No, our lives won't be interrupted. Besides by the time you get back it'll all be out in the open."

"You're one of the most capable people I've ever known and I've no doubt that you'll be able to deal with your father."

"I hope so."

"Just be yourself, strong, fearless, and don't change for him or your family."

"You and Eric are the best things that have ever happened to me."

"Likewise."

Later; after knocking off another bottle of wine Samantha and Jean Paul make love to one another. Two people from vastly different backgrounds and upbringings and yet two souls deeply in love. As to whether they can break the curse of past failures of such unions between an elite and an 'other kind', only the fates know.

London

Across the water, in a suite at the Hilton Hotel at the Heathrow Airport, Grozny Zhukovsky sits naked on the edge of the bed staring out the window.

In the background through the open bathroom door a female prostitute is busy slipping back into her clothes. Grozny pays her no heed as she straightens her attire, tidies her make-up and then leaves the room; having performed her service he has no more need of her.

Grozny's thoughts are on other matters. He has already set in motion events that will rebound against the House of Ravenscroft. This is but the beginning of what he has in mind, but sowing discontent amongst the ranks is a good start. For years Grozny has imagined the demise of the man who killed his father, the man who was now head of the pack of wolves that destroyed his grandmother's family. Grozny is a violent man, but he is also a cautious and cunning individual who knows that the best way to bring down his prey is from the shadows.

Just like any predator he must pick his killing ground and wait until the prey is within reach and then strike, like the crocodile hiding beneath the water for its prey to foolishly cross the stream. This is the way to defeat Zane Ravenscroft and not some forlorn frontal assault, no that will wait until the end, when his enemy is on his knees, then he will reveal himself in victorious triumph. Cunning, guile and attacking from within were the tools he would initially employ against his opponent. Grozny knows that the greatest advantage he has at the moment is the fact that no one knows of him and like some ghost he shall move unseen through the world destroying all that Zane has. Grozny has taken life but it is not death that he has in mind for Zane Ravenscroft - not yet anyway.

His mind at ease, Grozny makes his way to the bathroom and the shower. He must not miss his flight.

### CHAPTER 15

Brussels

Brussels, capital of Belgium and def facto capital of Europe, home to the EU and a host of other European and international organisations; a modern and historic city with many contrasts.

From its art-nouveau facades facing off against concrete disgraces, while the regal 19th century mansions contrast drastically with the brutal glass of structures of recent time. It is a powerful city, a bright city, but to Zane, who sits in the back of a chauffeur driven Mercedes, doesn't see any of that for his mood is black.

He has just come from a long meeting at the World Bank offices, to the rest of the world the World Bank in Washington D.C. is considered to be its main headquarters, but that is not true, the offices in Brussels is the true devil's lair. Zane has attended meetings all morning about financial matters affecting Europe and America as well as renegotiating several loans from other countries that owe 'Ravenscroft Holdings' a lot of money. It was a tiring morning, but afterwards he was taken aside by Phillip Page, personal assistant to Nicolas Dubaime, head of the House of Dubaime, one of the thirteen Illuminati families. Dubaime has requested a special gathering of all the heads of the thirteen families to discuss the state of matters amongst them and the current progress of the great work. This call took Zane completely by surprise.

It is rare for a meeting of the Illumnati to take place this way, but apparently other family heads also have concerns about the way things are progressing.

Zane knows that something is afoot - _but what?_

Dark thoughts are running through his mind as he is driven to his daughter's apartment. He knew there have been stirrings of discontent amongst certain factions within the web, but that isn't unusual, yet lately those rumblings were getting louder. Zane wasn't sure where they were emanating from or who was starting to stir the shit, but the ugly smell of rebellion was beginning to grow. To Zane it seems that the last few years have just been about him having to avert one crisis after another and perhaps there are those who believe he is no longer up to the task. _Perhaps the years of peace were coming to an end_. Zane fears that the more radical elements within the ranks were looking to take a more aggressive approach in order to achieve the goal and claim the prize.

Yet he knows the other players very well, even knows where their skeletons in the closet are stashed. He has always had his finger on the pulse of the heads of the other families, has always known what they were thinking. Zane was a strategist and his past dealings with Christophe Villon taught him to always be two steps ahead of your opposition and that is why this request has shaken him. _Maybe I'm just getting old_ , he contemplates darkly. But Zane senses something else; a new player perhaps has entered the game and gotten the ear of some of the others. _But who?_ Zane once more feels the cold hand of fear grasping at the nape of his neck.

"Damnit," he curses quietly. He knows they aren't too far off of achieving everything they want and that the last thing they need like a hole in the head is another civil war, a war this time that would more than likely spill over into the outside and end up involving certain countries in the world. This is something Zane does not want. No sane person would. But he knows full well that sanity is not always a trait high on the list of those that wield power and influence.

"Here we are sir," his driver's voice announces, interrupting Zane's train of thought.

The car has come to a halt outside his daughter's apartment building.

Zane looks up at the building. "One fight at a time." He opens the door telling his bodyguard/driver that he will call him when he's ready to leave.

Zane takes a breath.

Gathers he thoughts.

Then enters the building.

"Hello dad," Samantha says in greeting at her apartment door a few minutes later, a smiling Eric in her arms.

"Why Sam? Why?" A flabbergasted Zane asks his daughter. This revelation was not what he was expecting.

Samantha pours the coffee. Baby Eric lies happily on the floor on his baby rug. "Here you go," she offers the cup of coffee to Zane.

He accepts it. "Why keep it a secret?"

"Why do you think? Besides you already know the answer. Eric's father is a lowly architect, he's from peasant stock," she tells him full of sarcasm. "He's not from the right bloodline and to top it all off I love him."

"But the secrecy?"

"I've made something with my life, on my own, and Eric and John Paul are the most important part of it and I wasn't going to jeopardise all that and put the man that I love through the disapproving bullshit of our family. You know what the shit storm would have been like, not just you and mother but the disapproval of the other houses. I've seen firsthand the scandal an affair like this can cause internally and I have no intention of putting us through that."

This isn't the conversation Zane thought he would be having. "That aside, at the moment you still could have come to me, told me, I would have understood. It wasn't exactly wine and roses with your mother and me amongst our families."

"That's totally different," Samantha objects, "mum was still a Villon. My situation is nothing like that."

"Damnit all Sam you just love causing me problems, don't you" Zane says raising his voice.

"Don't raise your voice in front of my son," she tells him in a harden tone that brings Zane up short. "This is my life father," she switches to a formal approach as if addressing a jury, "this is what I want and I don't give a shit about what anyone else thinks, not even you, and the Ravenscroft, Villon and all the other families be damned. And while we're on the subject just how really important is the right pedigree, I mean we and my brothers had a surrogate mother and you didn't advertise that fact. Oh don't try and deny it I always had my suspicions and a couple of years ago I quietly had an investigator have a look into it. I was curious to see who was chosen to carry us, three separate women and from what little I could gleam at least two of them were mere 'commoners'."

"That was different," Zane says quickly recovering from his initial shock, "after the birth and death of our first child there were complications - damage - your mother almost died, it was the only way forward. But I was still your father and Eleanor is your mother, we have never thought otherwise."

"As for the surrogates I had nothing to do with them, I never even met them, your grandmother handled it all. But when I held you and your brothers for the first time..." Zane pauses, his voice choking up, "and I know your mother felt the same way."

"I know dad, my point is that it doesn't matter in the final analysis, all that matters is the fact that we love each other. I love you and mother and I always will, but I love Jean Paul and he's a good man and Eric is everything I could ever want. I'm happy dad, I truly am. Can you really blame me for wanting to keep this part of my life a secret?"

He cannot. "No."

Samantha comes and sits next to her father, putting her arms lovingly around him. "I love you."

Zane is deeply touched by this affection. "I know what true love is, Sam, I found that with your mother and another woman."

"Terina Benson," Sam knowingly tells him, "I suspected as much. She's the main reason that you and mother have become estranged, isn't she?"

"How did you get so damn smart?"

"By emulating my father."

"The heart wants what the heart wills," Zane says repeating the words his tutor, Shyla Moorcroft told him many years ago. "Love is not a common commodity in our family, Sam, and when you find it you have to hold onto it."

"Can't you two patch things up?"

A long moment of thoughtful silence follows.

"I don't know, I don't think so, but maybe. The thing is we're just going through the motions now, if not for the good of the..."

"Family," Samantha finishes.

"Yeah...I'm still upset at you, but I understand why you did what you did. There will be ripples but I can handle the flak. I don't know what else to say, I suppose I just need time."

"I understand. Will you tell mother straight away."

"I have to."

"I guess so."

"You have thrown me a curve ball, Sam; this is not what I came here for."

"I can't drop the case, it's beyond that now," she informs her father, quickly changing track as if their previous conversation hadn't occurred, yet it is a great relief off of her mind.

"You promised me that your career would never get in the way of the family business, remember."

"In the beginning I had no idea that Uncle Sebastian was involved, I only learned of it much later and by that time I couldn't excuse myself. I mean do you know what's happening in Zanubula?"

"I'm not fully abreast of the situation, but I can imagine," he says with a long sigh. "And this surprises you how?"

"I know what the Ravenscroft stand for, what our family has done for the great work and I can see how a united world can be a good thing, but only if there's true peace and justice for all. Its how I feel and that's why I have to see this through. Too many people are counting on me." Samantha speaks with a real genuine passion and although Zane doesn't like what he is hearing he is nonetheless proud of her.

"Since we're speaking the truth, I'll tell you honestly, that for the last few years I have been thinking the same way. 'The Work of Ages' could be something greater than has ever been imagined. But rocking the boat internally will achieve nothing but chaos. That's why I encourage you to negotiate a mutually advantageous settlement with Sebastian before matters spiral out of control."

"And what about the victims, what about those that have been killed, where's their justice. Worst case scenario; if Uncle Sebastian pulls out of Zanubula now and makes proper reparations, he'll be fine a lot of money that's all. But if this thing goes all the way and become a full blown human right violation, well, do I need to go on."

Samantha doesn't need to spell it out for Zane; he knows where this could end. "You'll eventually drag in 'Ravenscroft Holdings' you know that, don't you. I can never allow that to happen."

"Then get Uncle Sebastian to shut down his operations in Zanubula, take responsibility for the damage been done to the environment, pay compensation and move on. The people will agree."

Zane goes to say something but Samantha doesn't let him. "Honestly I don't know why he hasn't already cut his losses, civil war is likely to break out soon and then what will that mean for everyone involved."

Zane is impressed by his daughter's piercing insight. "I don't need the headache."

"Would you want me to be less than who I am; after all it was you that encouraged me to be more independent."

"I knew that was a mistake," he says with a fatherly smile. "Then again, I've made my share of them."

"If anyone can put a stop to this madness before it becomes any worse, it's you," she urges him.

"Alright, I'll talk to Sebastian, but he's pig headed stubborn," he relents for the love of his daughter. "Well, I've got to be going."

"So soon, business, huh?"

"Business. But I want you to come to Avalon soon and bring your family, okay."

"Okay. Would you like to hold your grandson before you go?"

"I'd like that."

Samantha picks up Eric and hands him to his grandfather. "This is grandpa," she informs Eric, "I'm sure you and he will be great friends."

Zane delicately holds his grandson in his arms and instantly his heart melts. "He's beautiful."

"Yes he is."

Zane spends several more minutes with Eric as warm memories of Samantha and her brothers come flooding back to him when they were still babies, showing unconditional love and relying on him for everything. As he holds his giggling grandson many of the burdens upon him are forgotten.

"Well, you best go back to your mother," he says handing him to Samantha.

"He likes you."

Before he goes Zane notices a lot of children's story books lying around the room. "Isn't he a bit young to read?"

"Jean Paul loves to read to him, helps his mental faculties grow he says, and Eric loves it. I'll just put him down and then I'll see you out," Samantha tells him before making her way to the baby's room.

While he waits, Zane has a casual look at the selection of kid's books and one in particular catches his eye. He picks it up and looks at the title: 'The King's One True Love'. He flicks through the pages and instantly recognizes the story; it is about a king who wanted more land and wealth and who, while seeking out this treasure, neglected and lost his queen, his one true love, and on realising this saw the error of his ways and spent the rest of his life doing good deeds to honour her memory. This is the same story that his cousin, Alyssa, told him years ago when they were kids. During those long summer nights of telling stories to one another up in attic at Avalon.

It is as if Zane has been hit with a ton of bricks.

The sweet memories and love of his beautiful cousin comes washing over him like a tidal wave. He is like a drowning man. He finds it hard to breathe. He hasn't really thought of her for years and now it's as if it was only yesterday that he last saw her. Tears swell up in his eyes. He breaks down and cries.

"Dad, what is it?" Samantha asks with concern. In all her years she has never seen her father cry. "Oh dad." She comes to him and holds him close as he sobs, the tears pouring out of him.

He looks at her \- he can't speak.

The long locked away emotions burst asunder and overwhelm him.

Zane sits mutely in the Ravenscroft jet, an untouched glass of scotch in front of him. The flight back to America is a solemn one. The personal air hostess stays at the back of the jet near the galley waiting to serve the boss when required.

But even she senses Zane's glum mood and so remains quiet and still. For Zane's part he doesn't know what to make of his emotional state of mind. The overpowering feeling of loss that swept over him at the memory of his long dead cousin still haunts him. And the tears, he hasn't cried like that in many a year.

He takes a swig of the scotch.

The memories of Alyssa won't stop surfacing; joy, happiness, tranquillity and love. Hot summer days and warm summer nights, the smell of freshly cut grass, the ocean, her sweet perfume, a kiss. Suddenly all of Zane's problems seem meaningless. The struggles, the triumphs have no value compared to the memory of his first love and the loss of that love through the cruel fate of death. That too brief time with his cousin were the joyous times of his life and although it only lasted a moment it was a moment in which he knew true happiness. It was a time when the troubles of adulthood were far away on the horizon. In fact the untimely death of Alyssa was the end of his childhood. He of course found elation again in the arms of Shyla Moorcroft and of course Eleanor, but the purity and untainted time he had with Alyssa was a one off never to be repeated. Zane feels the onset of tears once more.

"Get a grip," he chides himself, "I must be getting soft in my dotage." He takes another sip of scotch. He tells himself that this is just a freak occurrence, memories stirred up by seeing Sam and finding out that he was a grandfather, something that fills him with such pride, and so his emotions got the better of him. He might tell himself this but deep down inside he doesn't believe it, the fact of the matter is he has been changing over the last few years. _Changing to what?_ He questions. And the answer that comes back to him. _A better person_.

"Stupidity," he mumbles. _This is not the time to show weakness_ , he adds silently. There is too much at stake right now and Zane can't afford to be sidetracked by childish feelings of loss. _But it's more than that_. "The hell it is."

Zane grabs his mobile phone and puts in a call to Sebastian. A few rings later the call is answered. "Hello Zane," Sebastian's voice crackles through the phone.

"I'll be brief," Zane commences.

"That sounds ominous."

"I've spoken with Samantha and she is willing to negotiate a settlement. It won't be in your favour I'm sorry to say, so just cut your losses and settle this whole ugly business before I have to step in and settle it for you. And don't worry I'll compensate you for your losses."

Silence follows for several moments before Sebastian replies. "I shall comply. You can rest assured."

"Good, I appreciate it and remember I won't forget this."

"I know you won't." The line goes dead.

Zane ponders for a moment and then makes another call.

"Hello father," Damon Ravenscroft's voice says as he answers the phone.

"Look, Damon, I need you to do something for me," Zane says.

"Of course, what is it?"

"I need you to find out all you can about the agents investigating Edmonde's illegal dealings."

"Is that all?"

"No, if possible lure them into your web, blackmail them, I want them in our pockets. But be careful. The upmost secrecy."

"As always father you can count on my discretion," Damon reassures him.

"Good, I'll be in touch."

Zane hangs up.

He finishes off the scotch and indicates to the hostess for another. She complies. Zane slowly begins to get a grip on his erratic emotional state of being. He must stay focus. And have leverage - always have leverage. He is sure that there is something wicked out there, a storm slowly brewing. He just wishes he knew what it was.

And yet thoughts of Alyssa still preoccupy him.

The Mediterranean

Sebastian sits in the salon aboard his yacht having a late supper. A seafood platter sits in the middle of the table. His mobile also rests on the table having just hung up after his brief call from Zane. Sebastian grabs a tiger prawn, peels it and pops it into his mouth, his eyes looking across the table at his guest.

Sebastian finishes chewing and swallows. "So you were saying you could help me with my little problem?"

"Indeed," Grozny replies adamantly.

Sebastian washes the prawn down with a glass of white wine. "Won't you have a bite?" he asks.

"I've eaten."

Sebastian grabs another prawn. "I see. And who exactly are you?"

"A friend."

"A friend?" Sebastian queries.

"Of the Villon family," Grozny informs him enigmatically.

"Forgive my bluntness but what do you want?"

"Money."

"I see. How much?"

"A lot," Grozny tells him, "to make your problem go away."

Sebastian smiles for he understands money and greed, they are old friends.

Grozny also smiles contently knowing exactly the right words to say to Sebastian Villon.

"Well, then, shall we commence negotiations?" Sebastian suggests.

"Please, finish your dinner first, I am in no rush."

### CHAPTER 16

The Ravenscroft Children

Damon

The Roma School of Dance, New York City, 1996

A class of young students warm up before their lesson. They stretch and limber in front of the wall mirror. The class is mostly made up of young girls but there are a couple of boys and one of them is a nine year old Damon Elton Ravenscroft. Skinny, tall and of lithe appearance Damon has a feminine quality to his nature.

Coming from a surrogate mother there is no sign of Eleanor in his features but he is without doubt a Ravenscroft, possessing the same movie star looks of his father. Piercing blue eyes and blonde sandy hair make him stand out from the crowd.

"Alright let's begin," Amanda Travis says clapping her hands. The students move into position and begin their dancing as the music starts up on the CD player. Damon instantly shines from the rest with his graceful and sure footedness. He is the most popular student in the class and all the girls want to be his partner. "That's it, that's it, stretch those legs, and stamp your authority on your partner. That's it - excellent," Amanda Travis enthuses as her pupils get the moves right.

Watching quietly from the doorway is Eleanor. She looks on with pride at Damon. She had insisted to Zane that her children must have a sense of the arts. Her love of music and reading of course stems from her own mother, Juliana, who had instilled this love in her before her untimely death. To see Damon doing so well fills Eleanor's heart with joy in the sea of misery that surrounds her. Although seeing so much of Zane in his looks and none of her always brings out a little bit of anger in Eleanor, but she has learned to cope with it. Damon, like, Samantha and Bobby are her children. Zane of course was becoming concerned about Damon's masculinity, he'd rather he play football or something equally as macho, but Damon wasn't like that, he was different. There is a _je ne sais quoi_ to Damon, a unique and rare quality, a charisma, even at this young age, which seems to have power over others. He seems to be able to charm anybody or anything, even the birds out of a tree.

Amanda Travis was jubilant at having such a talented student in her class and only recently spoke to Eleanor about Damon's future tutoring. "He's uncanny in his movements," she had said. "All the students and teachers simply adore him. His talent is far outstripping the others in his class and that's why, with your permission, I would like to put Damon into a one on one class in which he will receive more personal training." At 39 years of age Amanda is a renowned teacher and a former ballroom champion dancer.

"Do you think he has that much talent?"

"Oh yes," Amanda readily agrees, "the classes are run by myself, Lisa Ryan and Natalia Olgoff and they're not only designed to give the student a more through education in the form of dance but to also hone in on which particular form of dance they're best suited for."

Eleanor came today to give her permission. Zane raised an eyebrow. But Eleanor was affirmative and got her way. She wasn't a fool; she knows full well that in time Damon will have to take up a position in the Ravenscroft Empire, but that didn't mean he shouldn't be cultured. And if it pissed off her husband, well, that was also just fine as far as she was concerned.

After class Eleanor and Damon sit comfortably in the back of the chauffeur driven limousine talking about his dancing. "That Miss Travis is quite taken with your ability."

"She's wonderful," Damon answers his mother, "all the teachers are excellent mother."

"You'll have to work extra hard as these personal classes will take up more of your time."

"I know."

"Can you handle that?"

"Yes," he replies in a confident sounding manner far older than his age would suggest.

Eleanor shakes her head in bemusement. "Is there nothing that fazes you, Damon?"

Damon doesn't answer. He stares out the tinted window at the passing people on the street.

"Damon?" Eleanor prompts.

"Not when you're doing something that you enjoy. I love to dance, mother. I intend to make it a part of my life no matter what I end up doing."

"I see. Well, I'm glad you told me then. You father might have other ideas."

"I know father doesn't approve of my dancing. But as long as I'm responsible and help out the family he won't mind." Damon's words are those of an adult. Eleanor is again amazed by the maturity in him and can't help but thinking that perhaps there is an old soul in him.

"Are we still going to the symphony this week?"

"Yes, of course, Handel's Fireworks."

"Wonderful," he almost shouts like the excited nine year old he truly is. "And shopping, will we still be doing shopping?"

"Naturally, this weekend is all about you and me."

"Thank you mother, this is going to be awesome."

Eleanor can't help but shake her head yet again at how one moment he can be so adult like and next so child like. She hopes that there is nothing wrong with him mentally, but the child psychologists she has taken him to have all reassured her that Damon is a healthy boy with no mental or psychological problems. A wunderkind, as Doctor Zimmerman put it. It seems that Damon is destined to grow into a savant if given the proper environment and opportunities. This is what Eleanor intends for him and to have and these personal classes with Miss Travis and her colleagues were just one step along that path.

Damon's personal lessons would become far more significant than anyone could possibly imagine.

Much, much, more.

Amanda Travis, Lisa Ryan and Natalia Olgoff would instruct Damon in far more important matters than just dancing.

They would give him the lessons, skills and tools to succeed in life. The bond between them would become something other than just teacher and student.

His friendship with them would last through the remaining years of his childhood and on into his teen and young adult years. In time Damon will come to look upon these three women as his Muses. As for Eleanor, she encouraged the relationship knowing all too well that these three women could do more for Damon than what she could, especially given the circumstances between herself and Zane.

Tuscany, 2003

The sun shines warmly down upon the small rustic Tuscany village.

A picture post card.

The white and sandy coloured buildings shimmer in the glare but offer a cool waiting inside. A short distance from this quaint setting an elderly man and his donkey carelessly stroll down a small dirt road past several vineyards with their rows of grape vines stretching off in the distance.

A few tourists wander around including a 16 year old Damon with Amanda Travis, Lisa Ryan, a 38 old semi-retired dancer and singer, who for a number of years was the toast of musical theatre on Broadway; and Natalie Olgoff, a 40 year old former ballerina. The quartet is busy sampling the local brew and watching the wine making process.

"What a glorious trip this is turning out to be," enthuses Damon. His muses have taken Damon on a European holiday, showing him the beauty of the world as well as continuing his education about fine wines, amongst other things. They have been touring the wine making region sampling all that has been on offer; the Chianti; the Brunello di Montalcino; the Vino Nobile di Montepulciano wines made from the Sangiores grapes and the Vernaccia di San Gimigano from the white Vernaccia grape. And of course the subtle dessert wine Vin Santo. Add on top of this the delicious tasting food, and the group has broken a few of the seven deadly sins.

But today the muses have brought Damon to a small and un-commercialised vineyard where they still make wine the old fashion way. Harvesting, crushing and pressing the grapes by hand, as well as the fermentation, clarification and filtration process followed by the bottling and ageing. All this is done with great care and knowledge and Damon soaks it up like a sponge. His passion for wine and the process for making it have grown intensely over the last year. Where this zeal stems from he is not sure, the influence of these ladies is a part of it, but it is something much deeper within him than just that. To him, he sees wine as not just a delicious beverage enjoyed across the world for its unique aromatic and flavour experience. Wine has been around for perhaps 8,000 years or longer, made and drunk throughout the centuries, a part of civilization itself. This red and white liquid is drunk at parties, weddings, and wakes and used in religious practices, whole empires from the past have lived and perished upon the wine trade.

To Damon, he is slowly coming to the conclusion that wine is the elixir of life, the true ambrosia of the gods, it is capable of bringing joy or sorrow, love or violence, and as any good alcoholic beverage it can make loose lips. As one of Amanda's favourite authors, Eduardo Galeano said: "We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine." This trip is only solidifying Damon's beliefs about the power of wine over men and woman.

Later in the day they sit beneath the yawning of a local cafe enjoying the local brew with some fine cheese and fruit. The heat haze fills the street as small urchin children play happily with sticks and stones, their imagination running wild.

"I say if we keep at this pace I'll surely lose what little is left of my figure," Lisa complains.

"Your beauty is not in question, Lisa," Damon tells her, "as for your figure, well, men like to have something to hold onto in the night."

Lisa laughs gaily. "My dear, dear boy, you're an absolute marvel. If you were but a few years older I think I would have you."

"Now, now, none of that," Amanda chides, "we're here to teach Damon, not seduce him. Although I think our star pupil needs little help in the art of seduction. That is one area I feel he shall have no problems in."

"Yes, Rachel still asks after you," Natalia says referring to Damon's first conquest.

"Rachel is a lovely girl, but she's just a child," Damon replies in a worldly manner.

"Look, who's talking," Lisa teases.

"No, no child, Damon is an adult," says Natalia.

"He is much more," praises Amanda.

"Too be in such beautiful company why would I want to be with anyone else," Damon says affectingly.

"Oh I could eat him," declares Lisa, "are you sure we can't have a little fun?"

Amanda raises her finger. "Willpower darling, willpower."

"That's something I'm afraid I don't have a lot of these days."

"When did you ever?" Questions Natalia.

"You know me too well. But I am surely tempted."

"Most people can resist everything but temptation," Damon tells her. They all laugh joyfully. Damon's love for these women is strong and genuine.

Ravenscroft Bank, Los Angeles, Present Day

"This is some good wine?" Max Crawford informs Damon as he drinks from a crystal glass containing the red liquid.

"What is the definition of a good wine?" Damon replies cordially. "It should start and end with a smile."

"A Burgundy?"

"A connoisseur, I see."

"I like to think so," Max Crawford says modestly. "Your own brand I assume?"

Damon smiles. "Yes, from my vineyard in the Napa Valley."

"Might have to get myself a case."

"Why don't you come to the vineyard this weekend, we're having a party, you're welcome to join us." Damon offers. "I'll even throw in a case of the Burgundy Ravenscroft."

"I've heard about these famous parties of yours."

"A little wine, a little dancing, a little horizontal shuffle," Damon tells him with a grin. "No one ever leaves disappointed."

"Count me in," Max Crawford enthusiastically accepts.

"Good, I'll make all the arrangements." _Another fish on the hook_ , he thinks contentedly to himself. Max Crawford, 40's, overweight, balding, and CEO of one of the major movie studios in Hollywood. A man with many vices and all of which Damon intends to exploit.

They sit in Damon's plush office at the Ravenscroft Bank on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Drinking a glass of fine wine at the successful conclusion of their meeting. Crawford has just got final approval on a two hundred million dollar film finance deal. The office has a Mesa American theme including an old stone square carved tablet hanging on the wall, Mayan in origin, depicting an erupting volcano, a canoe sailing away and the head of a drowning Mayan in the water. A striking piece that has caught Crawford's eye throughout the entire meeting.

"What is that piece exactly?" he asks. Curiosity finally winning out.

"An extremely rare piece indeed dating back to the time of the Mayan Empire around 700 or 800 AD. It was discovered in 1926 by a German expedition and sat in a Berlin Museum until it was reportedly destroyed during one of the many Allie bombing raids during WWII. As you can see it wasn't destroyed, but it remained unseen for many years until I came across it."

"It's something alright."

"Yes it is."

"What does it depict though?" Crawford questions.

"One theory is that the image is supposed to depict the sinking of Atlantis. The canoe is meant to represent the people of Atlantis fleeing their doomed homeland and arriving in the Americas where they created the Mayan Empire."

"Really?"

"Fascinating, isn't it."

"Must be worth a fortune," Crawford says in awe.

"Enough to bankroll one of your summer blockbusters," Damon points out. At 29 years of age Damon has matured into a slim, handsome man, well manicured in his Armani white shirt, tie and black pants as well as his fine Italian leather shoes. His blonde sandy coloured hair has darkened but still retains its thickness and lushness. His blue eyes still piercing and the feminine quality to his nature are still apparent. Damon has come far in his young years and is now head of the West Coast operation of Ravenscroft Banking.

"And this one?" Crawford indicates another stone tablet behind a glass case.

"Oh that one. That's from ancient Mesopotamia."

"And the writing?" Crawford indicates the faded hieroglyphics on it.

"It talks of wine making."

"Really?"

"People have been making wine for over 8,000 years or so."

"But did they even have yeast? Or sterilized containers to make it in for that matter?"

"Oh yes, the hieroglyphs tell us that grapes have their own yeast on the outside of the skins. If you harvest them to get the juice out but leave the grape skin in, the mixture will ferment all by itself because of the naturally occurring yeast. In most cases, the natural yeast is not the yeast we use today but it apparently served its purpose back in ancient times." Damon is almost like a professor as he parts this wisdom onto Crawford.

"Well, I never."

Damon smiles. "As for sterilization, they used silver. It is mentioned several times in many ancient texts that silver has an antibacterial effect. To this day we know that silver kills bacteria or severely inhibits bacterial growth. The ancients would start their wine in large silver lined containers and let it ferment in them. Once the alcohol content was high enough, the wine itself and the alcohol it contains is enough to keep bugs from growing."

"Are you sure?"

"Quiet. I've actually tried the process myself."

"You learn something new every day, hey."

"Yes."

The intercom buzzes. His secretary tells him that his father is on the line and wants to speak to him.

"I'll be with him in a moment," he tells the secretary through the intercom, "I do need to take this call, Max, but I'll see you on the weekend and will have those contracts forwarded to you by tomorrow."

"Great, great, it's been good doing business." Max Crawford quickly finishes his glass of wine. "Well I best get going. Anymore and you'll have to call me a cab." He shakes hands and is shown out by Damon. He then goes back to the desk and takes the call from his father. There is some interference in the connection as Zane is calling him from thirty thousand feet in the air having just left Brussels. His father tells him about needing information on the people investigating Edmonde's illegal activities and what he wants done about it.

Damon eagerly agrees. He could sense the urgency in his father's words and even detect a hint of fear, something he has never heard or seen in his father before.

This warrants his full attention.

Five minutes after hanging up, Damon tells his secretary that he needs to see Mr. Stiles as soon as possible.

Damon has achieved much in the last ten years. His talents are many and varied and dealing in the trafficking of information has become one of his specialities.

Bel-Air

Damon drives into the gated community of Bel-Air, one of the worlds most famous and prestigious locations, as a red pastel coloured sky glows in the distance from the sunset. He is driving a red Ferrari California T. The hard top is off and he is enjoying the air. Bach's Prelude & Fugue No 1 in C Major: "Well-Tempered Clavier", plays on the car's music system. Damon drives along the curving hilly road pass the many opulent mansions until he turns into the long winding driveway of his own little shack. He kills the engine. Gets out of the car and enters his millionaire's paradise. The spectacular court mansion consists of 11,000 square feet with 24 rooms of architectural splendour, with 6 bedrooms, 7 bathrooms, a 2000 square foot master suite with a large whirlpool tub, and a scenic outside courtyard. It also boasts sensational canyon and city views throughout making it the pinnacle of high end living.

And all yours for a measly twenty million dollars.

A real steal if you are rich enough.

Damon, joyfully whistling Bach's tune, throws his keys in a bowl on a table near the entrance and makes his way through to the main living room where the stunningly beautiful Genevieve is busy pouring wine from a newly open bottle.

"Hello darling," she beams in greeting.

"My love," Damon replies gratefully accepting the offering. "Mmm, it somehow always tastes better when you pour."

"Thank you. You must be tired. Sit and unwind."

Damon does so.

"Dinner is almost ready," she tells him.

"Wonderful."

Removing his tie and unbuttoning his collar and kicking his shoes off, Damon puts his feet up and enjoys the drink which he drains in a couple of mouthfuls only to have it quickly topped up by the seemingly subservient Genevieve - the love of his life. A year younger than Damon, Genevieve Poulton has been with him for the last seven years, one of the world's leading supermodels she has also been voted in the top fifty of the most beautiful women in the world. A brunette with a bright and bubbly personality, green eyes and a smile to die for, she is a wonderful catch for any man, and in this case it was all Damon that did the fishing. They are lovers and not husband and wife and nor will they ever be.

Damon lives a life few will ever know.

An hour after dinner Damon stands in the courtyard, by the glass railing, staring down at the breathtaking view below. The lights of the City of Angels glittering as if it were an ocean. Damon is contemplating his recent conversation with his old man when his thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Stiles.

"I got your message."

"There's work to be done," Damon informs him. He turns around to look at him. "Are you hungry?"

"I've eaten, thanks," the African American answers. Mr. Stiles is one cold fish. Rarely showing any emotion and always immaculately dressed in casual attire. Yet he is one of Damon's most valued people. Another one of those individuals that you go to when something needs to be done - or taken care of.

"I need you to look into these people." Damon grabs an envelope off the table and hands it to Mr. Stiles. Inside are brief dossiers on the individuals leading the investigation against Edmonde Villon.

Stiles looks at the names. "This won't be easy."

"But important. I want the usual, you know the drill. I need to know all their little vices - their secrets. Always remember secrets are a burden and that's the reason we are so anxious to have somebody helps us carry them. I need it fast."

"That'll cost extra."

"Do you need to ask. Just get it done."

"Of curse Mr. Ravenscroft."

"Tell me have you heard anything of a leak?"

"No."

"Something's up," Damon tells Stiles suspiciously. "They have to be getting this information from somewhere. Find out where."

"I know some people who can help."

"Pull whatever resources you need. Top priority, understand?"

"Completely." Stiles is all business.

"Be through, look everywhere. No enemy is more dangerous than a friend who isn't sure whether there for you or against you."

"I understand. Is that all?"

"I'll be having some extra special guests at the vineyard this weekend," Damon adds, "make sure everything is prepared."

"As always."

"Get to it then." Damon dismisses him.

Mr. Stiles leaves as quietly as he came. He has plenty of work to do.

Some of Damon's anxieties are removed after talking with Stiles. Whatever the problem is they will fix it. Damon sits in the courtyard for a little while longer drinking wine and slowly letting whatever tension he has flow from his body.

He then retires to the master bedroom.

Where, after a shower, he lies naked beneath the satin sheets of the round shaped king size bed. The lights are low and soft music plays. The remains of lines of heroine on the bedside table. Damon's chest is as smooth as silk without a hair upon it. He rests his head against the large European pillows and waits. A minute or so later Genevieve enters from the ensuite bathroom dressed in sexy lingerie that hides virtually nothing. She too has been sampling the narcotics.

She makes her way to the foot of the bed. "For your eyes only darling." She then begins to move her body. Swaying from left to right. A slow erotic dance. Her hands running up and down her body. She lets the music enwrap her being, giving herself over to it completely. Damon watches his private dancer. His erection growing by the moment. After all these years he still desires her. She still excites him just as much, if not more, than the first day he laid eyes upon her.

A day he will never forget.

New York City, 2009

Genevieve Poulton strides down the catwalk at the annual New York Fashion Week. She is wearing a slick and elegant looking creation by Stefan of Paris. Her beauty outshines the clothes. The main tent at Bryant Park is jammed with buyers and sellers, members of the public and the press. Most have come to see the international collections from the great designers and fashion houses of Paris, London and Milan; but many have also come to catch a glimpse at Genevieve, the latest and newest supermodel that is taking the world by storm. Songs from the pop band 'Adam & the Derelicts' fill the tent with their latest number one 'Girls like Sue'.

"She's stunning," a 22 year old Damon proclaims of Genevieve from his front row seat.

"Absolutely gorgeous," Amanda Travis concurs. Still good looking at 52 year of age, sits alongside Damon with his other muses; Lisa Ryan, now 44, and Natalia Olgoff, now 46.

"I hear she's an absolute darling," Olgoff says.

"Absolutely," Lisa adds.

"She's taken you know," Amanda informs her prized pupil having seen the look of desire in his eyes.

"Oh."

"Adam Russell's bedding her - this is his song you're listening to now."

"That just makes matters more interesting," Damon replies coolly. His eyes are riveted on Genevieve's back as she retraces her steps back down the catwalk.

Amanda smiles wickedly. "It'll be a challenge.

"Yes, I hear they're very much in love," Natalia says bitingly.

Lisa also smiles. "When has that stopped us?"

"Do you really want her?" Amanda asks.

"Of course."

"Are you sure?"

"We all have passions, wants and needs," Damon says, "we can facilitate them, go against them, or ignore them."

Damon has come to know all about emotions, wants and needs. He has been studying people's wants and knows that when somebody desires something it's not due to their skin colour, not their religion, not their sex, although sometimes these things do get them to that place. But in the end it boils down to what they want, what they need, and what's in their way. And what they are willing to do to obtain it.

"You'll have to seduce her. Make her forget this love for this Adam guy," Amanda says knowingly. "But that's where we come in."

"They will be at the party tonight?"

"Yes, Damon, they will indeed."

"Good," he replies, filled with lust and want. He wants this Genevieve for himself. It's as simple as that. There is something about her that makes him ache inside. He has had many women in his young life and a few men, but he has never had feelings for them like he has for this woman that he has never met. He wasn't one to believe in love at first sight, or true love for that matter. Desire yes - but love, who knows, but it will be fun to find out.

The fashion party at the reception hall of the Hilton Hotel is in full swing. Champagne and wine are flowing. Music is thumping. Bodies dance, drink and party the night away like there is no tomorrow.

Genevieve is amongst the throng dancing with her pop star boyfriend Adam Russell. Many eyes are upon the celebrity couple; including those of Damon and his muses. "Let the games begin," he announces.

Damon then watches as Lisa and Natalia make their way up to the high profile couple and manage to cut in, stealing Adam almost. Another male then begins dancing with Genevieve. Damon's eyes never leave his prey. He can almost taste her. Amanda leans in close, nibbles his ear and whispers: "A gift to use as you will."

Damon joyfully grins. He is pleased. He gives Amanda a loving kiss on the lips. "Thank you."

Amanda moves off to join her sisters upon the dance floor.

Later, Genevieve stands by the crowded bar waiting to be served. She is flustered and upset. Her boyfriend has been dancing with other women all night. As well as being outrageously flirty. It is something she knew she would have to deal with when dating a pop star, and she has, for their feelings toward one another are genuine. And yet at times it's tough.

"May I buy you a drink?"

She turns to her left and sees a most handsome man standing alongside of her. Damon smiles warmly as he flags the bar tender. "You seem like a Bacardi rum, person."

"Yes, thanks," she answers.

"One Bacardi rum and a glass of red for me," he politely tells the bar tender. "I'm a wine lover myself," he tells her.

"Me too.

"You are?"

"Oh I like wine," she hastily adds for some reason, "just not at parties like this, you know what I mean."

"Yes I do. A good wine should be savoured in a more relaxing setting."

"Something like that."

"By the way my name is Damon."

"Oh, Genevieve."

"Who doesn't know you? And if I might be so bold you're the most stunningly attractive person in this whole place," he tells her in a charming manner.

Genevieve blushes. Why, she doesn't know. _There's something about this man_. "Thank you."

"It's the truth, but I'm sure you must hear that all the time."

"It's still nice of you."

"Glad to be of service."

The bar tender brings them their drinks. They take them and move away from the bar toward the wall.

"How is Fashion Week going for you?" he asks his words and easy going manner instantly putting her at ease.

"Frantic. There's never enough time to get everything done, the designers are always in hysterics and yesterday the damn hair stylist singed my hair with the curling iron."

"Oh dear," Damon tells her in sympathy.

"It sounds trivial - I know." She is about to defend herself but Damon hushes her.

"Not at all. It's your livelihood. It's your image that is helping promote their product."

"Exactly."

"You have every right to be upset if they don't manage things properly."

"That's it."

"Believe me I know where you're coming from. And I can just imagine the bitching that you must have to put up with backstage."

"Emma Crow is the worse," she blurts out, "oh I shouldn't say anything."

"Yes, I've heard that she's a bit of a Prima Dona."

"You have no idea," Genevieve continues, "she complains endlessly about everything. Nobody can do anything right in her eyes. And she has bad cellulite deposits, don't you know."

Damon acts surprise. "Really?"

"Oh yes and that's not all."

"Do tell."

And Genevieve does. She opens up to this stranger she has just met. Telling him all the secrets of the other models. Damon listens attentively. Putting a word in here and there but overall letting her do all the talking. A couple of Bacardi and rums later and Genevieve is opening up about her own anxieties and even her relationship with Adam Russell. They continue talking for quite a while before Genevieve tells Damon that she has to go and get some sleep as she has another show at noon tomorrow. Damon tells her what a wonderful time he has had and that he hopes to see her again soon.

Genevieve says her goodbye and then goes off, a little tipsy, to find her missing boyfriend so that they can leave. She searches for him but can't find him. She asks a few people until someone tells her that they saw Adam heading upstairs with some ladies. Conveniently someone tells her the room he was going to.

Genevieve makes her way up to the room.

"Adam," she calls out, "are you here?"

She gets no reply.

But she hears giggling coming from behind a closed door. Her anger rising, she tries the handle, it's not locked.

She opens the door and walks in on Adam Russell naked on the floor with Amanda, Lisa and Natalia, also starkers. Amanda rides Genevieve's boyfriend like she is on a bucking bronco, while Lisa and Natalia assist in a shocking _ménage a trio_.

'Bloody hell, Adam," Genevieve says astounded.

Feeling sick to her stomach, Genevieve leaves.

She rushes back downstairs in distress.

Seeing her, Damon comes up to her with genuine concern even though he knows what has occurred. Genevieve doesn't want to talk about it. She just wants to go. Damon offers to drive her to her hotel. She agrees.

Once there, Damon manages to get invited up to her room, where Genevieve begins telling him what happened. Why she opens up to this man she doesn't know, except that he is kind and a good listener and she needs to tell someone what she is feeling. Sadness, betrayal, anger, she goes through all the emotional ups and down as if she were on some crazy rollercoaster that wouldn't stop.

Damon listens attentively, and after plying her with a few more Bacardi's he seduces her out of her clothes and into the bed. And so the courtship and seduction of Genevieve Poulton commences.

Damon woes her.

He takes her out every night during that first week and treats her like a queen.

He seduces her.

Giving her expensive gifts, but also sways her with words, filled with passion and love.

She falls for him and they keep on seeing one another. They say that hope always has a place in a lover's heart, but as far as Damon is concerned he never needed hope.

Adam Russell tries to mend things with her and although Genevieve still has strong feelings for him, Damon's pull is still strong and so she begins to forget about him. Damon introduces her to the finer things in life, good wine and food, and drugs. Damon also makes sure that Adam forgets about her. He buys him off with a more lucrative record deal, one that will make him many more millions.

"Take the deal," Damon tells Adam Russell, "forget her, she is forgetting you. With all this extra money you'll have there isn't a woman on the planet you could not have. Why not have them all. A woman's ideal man is one clever enough to make money and foolish enough to spend it on her. Genevieve doesn't wish to see you anymore, so why waste the time and effort. She is gone Adam, time to move on."

Damon is very persuasive.

And so he gets Adam Russel out of the picture. A year later while on tour in Europe Adam Russell, lead singer of 'The Derelicts' commits suicide in a Paris hotel, by hanging himself with a belt. The reasons for why he did this are never made fully clear, but depression certainly plays a factor.

On hearing the news, Genevieve, barely bats an eyelid. By this time she is too dependent on Damon and the life style he has given her. A life filled with pleasures of all descriptions and a few depravities. She is now one hundred percent under his control. She keeps up with her modelling career and reaches great heights, including cameos in a few popular movies, but all under the watchful guidance of her lover. She even becomes friends with Amanda, Lisa and Natalia, not even blaming them for Adam's discretion.

As for Damon he goes from strength to strength.

Avalon, the Hamptons, 2011

Damon stands with Zane in the library sharing a glass of red wine. Damon has nothing but respect and loyalty to his father and it shows in his stance and mannerisms.

"I suppose you know why I've asked you here?" Zane begins.

"I believe so," Damon replies.

This room has always been his favourite. He has many fond memories of being in this room. Reading the many tomes gathered here as well as the time spent with his father.

"I'm giving you the managerial position of our West Coast branch," Zane informs him, "you're more than capable of handling it. Dare I say banking is in your blood?"

"Thank you father. I won't disappoint your faith in me."

Damon is virtually busting with joy.

"I have no doubts, son, you're level headed, cool in a crisis, good with finance, and these are traits invaluable in this line of work."

"It is quite the position, I shall relish the challenge."

"We've also come into a couple of vineyards in the Napa Valley region, foreclosures on unpaid loans. I thought you might be interested in taking ownership of them. Giving you passion for the stuff," Zane says as he holds up the wine glass in his hand.

Damon is overjoyed. "Yes indeed - thank you."

"You've earned it. That business with Stanley & Alfred, well done. The information you furnished put them in their place."

"It was nothing," Damon modestly tells him.

"No, no, I don't know how you came upon it, but well done. You seem to have a talent for gathering...information."

"It's not too hard to obtain such secrets if one knows where to look or how to go about obtaining them."

"It is something I feel strongly that you should continue pursuing," Zane suggests cryptically.

"I understand completely."

"We're surrounded by enemies, Damon, never forget that."

"I won't father."

Zane holds up his glass. "A toast then. To great things."

Damon raises his glass; they clink, and toast this new partnership.

Eagle Reach Winery, Napa Valley, Present Day

Damon's winery is a vast estate in the rich Napa Valley region of California. Surrounded by rolling hills the main house, a modern brick construction, designed to blend into the environment, sits upon a hill away from the nuts and bolts of the winery. Several wood cabin guest houses are tucked away in a small section of the property that face out upon a European village like plaza where celebrations, parties and special occasions are held. This area is also designed to match the countryside and although from the outside the cabins may look rustic, they are very well maintained and the inside of each one is first class accommodation all done out in rural themes.

The night is a sultry one for the party Damon is hosting.

There is, in fact, a private party at the vineyard almost every weekend. They are by invitation only. There are around twenty men and women present, all rich and important, including Max Crawford. There are also half a dozen good looking younger men and women in the mixture, wearing skimpy coloured togas, serving refreshment.

The theme of tonight's party is ancient Rome.

The guests have all been given suitable attire.

Joyful flute and instrument music plays from hidden speakers

The low to the floor tables have been laid out like a Roman banquet. They are adorned with scrumptious roast meats and vegetables, sweet meats and a myriad of fruit, pears, apples, peaches, strawberries, and rockmelon as well as an assortment of dips and breads and of course wine and plenty of it. The guests sit on thick cushions upon the ground.

The party has been going for several hours and the guests, all suitably inebriated, are having a wonderful time as they eat, drink, flirt, and be merry.

A small bonfire burns brightly in the centre of the plaza.

The host enters the celebrations.

The guests applaud.

The atmosphere instantly goes up a notch.

And what a sight he is to behold.

Damon is decked out in a gold glittering toga, with a golden laurel upon his head. He carries a large silver jug of red wine and a lyre, which he strums merrily as he is carried in on a litter by four well greased barbarians. He sits upon the throne like a god. Walking in front of him is a scantily clad Genevieve. She carries a basket of red rose petals that she throws in front of her king. His entrance is like that of an Emperor of ancient Rome.

The guests cheer and applaud even louder at his arrival.

Damon is carried once around the plaza waving and greeting his followers. The well trained and well paid barbarians finally put his litter down. Damon virtually leaps up and plucks his lyre.

"Welcome - welcome one and all!" He shouts in greeting. Those gathered shout back with equal enthusiasm. "Are you all having fun?" Indeed they are. "Good, wonderful, this feast is in honour of you my dear, dear friends. There are no rules here tonight, save one, indulgence."

The guests go wild.

"Now listen to what I have to say," Damon continues, "let us celebrate the occasion with wine, sweet words, and dancing."

On cue the music being piped in switches to a more up-tempo beat. Also on cue Genevieve begins dancing while Damon takes the large silver jug of wine and commences to fill up the empty goblets of his guests. The wine he is pouring is very special. It is a sweet wine of his own concoction. It has many secret ingredients including mind altering drugs designed to make one less inhibited and more susceptible to influence. With all eyes upon the luscious Genevieve, Damon continues to pour and those gathered continue to drink. And it isn't long before they also get up and dance. Their hips swaying to the music and their heads feeling light and their minds feeling free of care, slowly give in to the moment. Damon, to, begins to dance around his guests with exuberance, bringing joy, laughter, and happiness wherever he goes.

At the appropriate time Genevieve begins to dance with one of the young serving women. They do an exotic dance. Their gorgeous bodies move in unison with the rhythm of the music and each other's bodies. They dance close and intimate, their hands and bodies touching one another. They swirl around holding hands.

They move in close and then far apart. Finally they embrace, crushing their bodies against each other. It appears they are about to kiss but quickly pull apart. This continues again and again, but each time their lips are about to meet they pull apart. The whole erotic dance is designed to capture those watching - and it is.

Then, finally, giving over to the moment, the two kiss, a long wet kiss that utterly captivates the men and women watching. One of the barbarians then joins the entertainment. He looks at the serving girl in a lascivious manner before roughly grabbing her and tearing off her top revealing her gorgeously shaped breasts.

He devours them.

She gives in to the lust. He removes the rest of her clothing and his own. He lays her on the ground, spreading her legs and quickly entering her.

Damon continues to pour the wine whispering lustful words into the ears of his guests adding to the sexual tension in the air.

The barbarian and the serving girl make mad passionate and uninhibited love in front of everyone. Genevieve continues to dance and strut around the couple. It isn't long before the orgy begins in earnest. Prompted by the other serving men and woman and the remaining barbarians, the guests soon begin to embrace and fondle one another, removing their clothing and giving themselves over to the situation, fully and completely.

Many of those present haven't experienced such a thing and yet they embrace this decadence or swinging scene depending on your point of view. A mass sexual euphoria grips the bodies and minds of those present.

Like some demented guru Damon grins happily at the writhing nakedness before him. He watches buttocks rise and fall, breasts fondled and lustful hands grasping and clawing at glistening, sweating flesh in the firelight. The music continues to play but amongst it are the many moans and pitches of passion and climaxes as all those gathered abandon morality and decency.

He is joined by Genevieve.

They kiss lovingly.

They enjoy a glass of wine together.

They hold hands and watch.

Hours later, Damon stands in an expensive silk kimono in the security office of the vineyard. A clock on the wall indicates that it is just after 3 AM. He is standing in front of a bank of CTV monitors watching. Unknown to the party guests there is extensive surveillance equipment operating throughout the estate, providing potential blackmail material, should further coercion be required. At the moment his attention is focused on Max Crawford's cabin. The studio executive is sprawled naked and spent on his bed, lying alongside of him, also nude, is one of the young serving woman from the orgy. Both are exhausted and depleted but pleased from their love making. Damon is also contented, although the young girl looks like she is nineteen or twenty, she is in fact fifteen, and he has the footage and sound of everything that just took place in that room.

He may never need to use this material. In fact Crawford may never come to know it exists unless it is required. Damon has many such footage, audio and pictures of all manner of people doing indecent things over the last few years.

His parties are designed for this. He gathers the incriminating evidence and stashes it away until it is required. Amongst his many other talents he is a master blackmailer. He even has damming evidence on just about every leading member of the Illuminati families. It has never been used - except a couple of times - and then only to bring them into line. But he has the goods on some of the most powerful and influential people in the world. His father of course approves of what he does: "The way to victory is to know all there is about your enemy," Zane would always remind him.

"Excuse me sir."

Damon turns and looks at Mr. Stiles.

"A most successful party wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed it is," Mr. Stiles agrees, "another triumph."

"Yes, but we must try a different theme next time. Although a Roman orgy always reels them in." Damon then notices the manila envelope in Mr. Stiles' hands. "Is that for me?"

"Yes sir." Stiles obediently hands over the envelope. "That's what I have so far on the people investigating your uncle. You'll see there are perhaps one or two things we may be able to use."

"It's not much, is it," Damon says as he casts an eager eye over the material.

"I'll keep on it but most seem straight lace."

"Look deeper," he orders.

"Yes Mr. Ravenscroft."

"I don't want to have to arrange something unless absolutely needed."

"I concur."

"And the other matter?"

"Nothing concrete, but there is something definitely in the wind. I haven't much except a name that has popped up a couple of times."

"What name?" Damon enquires.

"Grozny."

### CHAPTER 17

The Ravenscroft Children

Bobby

Avalon, the Hamptons, 1997

Bobby Henry Ravenscroft, nine years old, splashes water at his father. They are in the pool house. Zane picks up his son and playfully tosses him away. Bobby resurfaces blowing water from his nose, which is never a good sensation.

"Huh!" Zane yells and swims away as Bobby gives chase.

Bobby is a healthy young boy, bright and athletic with jet black hair and dark brown eyes and is the youngest of the three Ravenscroft children.

"Got you," he yells as he grabs the old man.

"Damn your fast," Zane says in praise.

"And you're slow."

"Get out of it," Zane replies once more grabbing his giggling son and tossing him away. Bobby loves it, trying to make as big a splash as possible in the process. Bobby quickly comes back up for more but sees his father swimming away.

"Come on," he calls out.

"Practise your breaststroke - I need to catch my breath," Zane tells him, genuinely out of breath. _I'm not as young as I use to be_. Zane reaches the edge of the pool and gets out, sitting himself down on the edge with his feet dangling in the water. He watches his son as he starts swimming the length of the pool. Bobby slices through the water with ease. Zane has a sudden flashback of himself at Bobby's age swimming up and down in this very same pool.

Memories.

Zane shakes them off - he doesn't want to live in the past _._

What's gone is gone.

There's only now and the future.

Zane turns his attention to Bobby. He watches his youngest with a father's pride. He has never tried to play favourites with his children but there is something about Bobby that he admires. The Ravenscroft children will all have important roles to play in the years ahead but Bobby will have the most significant. Zane sees Bobby as a world leader.

There has always been the notion that along with a one world government there should also be a leader of this one world government, a king if you will.

He sees Bobby as this monarch.

Now as to whether this can be truly obtained, Zane has his doubts, but as they keep trying to shape the world towards this concept they will need a public figure to shepherd it along and as far as Zane is concerned Bobby fits the picture. He has all the makings within him to achieve this. He just needs the right guidance - the right education - if he has this then the rest will fall into place as he already has the charisma, the personality, the competiveness, and the intelligence. He is top of his classes and all his teachers have high praise for him. He is even showing quite a lot of musical talent with the violin of all things. One more arrow to add to his growing quiver.

And yet.

There is another side to Bobby which shows itself every so often - a temper. He is sometimes quick to anger. Too quick for Zane's liking. He thought it might be ADHD or something. But the quacks found nothing. Still, it's something he will have to keep an eye on and that's one thing he will do is to keep two eyes on Bobby.

"Don't bend your arms so much," he calls out as Bobby swims pass.

Bobby loves the water.

He loves the feeling of weightlessness it gives him.

He usually spends too much time in the pool shrivelling up like a prune.

But he loves it.

And he loves his father.

He worships him.

And so he doesn't bend his arms so much after hearing what his father tells him. He would do anything to please him. His relationship with his father is closer than to his mother, who is distant sometimes, more so as he gets older. He is also close to his brother and sister, especially Samantha who is always looking out for him. Always eager to please and be appreciated, Bobby sometimes goes out of his way to do this. Although it takes more effort he has found that the results are nearly always better.

Bobby knows he is destined for greatness. He has a sense of it. He knows that his father also sees it in him. Their conversations of late have been about the great work - 'The Work of Ages'. Zane has begun to tell him of just who their family is and what they have been striving towards: "Knowledge is power only when it's turned on, son," he would tell him. "You must understand the past to move ahead, to learn from the mistakes our family have made. Errors in judgement, in ways of thinking, not being able to adapt quick enough when required and that it doesn't matter how much power you obtain for it will either burn you out or light you up. It all depends on how you handle it. Many a promising young man has been ruined by getting his hands on too much power before he was able to handle it. I had such power given to me at a young age and I wish I had more time to prepare for it, but it doesn't always work out that way."

"That's why I want you to be prepared for it at no matter what age it may come to you. And it will come to you. One day, if you so desire, you can become the most powerful person in the world - a god amongst mortals. But we must be smart in achieving what we want"

Bobby understands.

He's a good boy.

He always listens intently when his father speaks. Taking in every word he tells him, determined to learn and not let his father down. This is something he promises himself as he swims faster and faster towards his future.

The White House, Washington D.C., Present Day

At a diplomatic function at the White House, Bobby Ravenscroft, now 27, is seizing the opportunity to promote Ravenscroft interests. He is talking with great elegance to world dignitaries about the goal of establishing a select group of people to control the global economy. With all the financial unrest the world over in the last few years a truly world governing body overseeing the financial stability of the planet is the safest bet moving forward into an uncertain future. He is peppered with many questions from those listening: "How would such a body operate?" - "What balances and checks would there be?" - "Who would be in charge?" - "How much power would it have?"

Booby has an answer for each question.

"It could operate under the UN with an oversight committee to oversee the checks and balances to make sure that there is no favouritism or blatant manipulation. As to who would be in charge, well there would have to be a chair person, someone with impeccable credentials, an individual who could report to the UN and governments of the world and as to how much power this body would have; well, it would have as much power as it's given."

"What you say has merit and has gained some momentum in recent time," one of the foreign dignitaries points out.

Bobby continues his dogma. "It's an inevitable _Force Majeure_ I assure you. Just look at the state of the world, everywhere we see chaos, war, poverty, injustice, hunger, just look at the so called haves and have nots in my own country, the divide between the rich and poor is an ever growing chasm that in the end will lead to civil unrest, like we've seen in Europe over the austerity measures."

"And why is that? Yes, the austerity measures were harsh and unjust in my opinion, but they were brought about by poor economic management by the governments involved. When you break it all down the cause of such instability is easy to put your finger on. When a man or a woman has no job and can't even put food on the table for their children, when everything has been stripped away from them, their savings, their home, their dignity; what else is left but to take up arms, it's the final act of a desperate person. But prosperity, money, jobs; it's the answer and has always been so. Gandhi once said: 'The way to happiness is to keep the belly fed and the ambition in check': and there is such simple truth in those words."

"Admirable words Mr. Ravenscroft," another dignitary begins to say.

"Please, call me Bobby."

"Bobby...the problems of the world are not so easily fixed."

"That's putting it mildly," another adds.

"You'll get no argument from me on that point. What I'm saying is not going to be easy, it's going to take a monumental effort, a complete shift in the way we think about economics, a new paradigm must be provided, a new work for the age. Just ask yourselves this, what do we want out of life? What do we really and truly want out of life? Happiness, we all enjoy our nip of scotch before bedtime and all we really want is to be happy, is for our children and grandchildren to grow up healthy and live happy lives."

This brings nods of approval from all gathered.

"Life may not have meant to be easy - but it should be fun," Bobby tells them. "Economic prosperity is the key, one body governing and setting the economic policies of the world, in the end, is the only viable answer."

"The economic systems of the world are broken and need to be fixed. If we don't bring about such change then I foresee a bleak future ahead of us, one filled with ever growing unrest and greater wars. God help us if we have another world economic crisis, for if we do I'm not entirely sure that we would survive it."

Bobby Ravenscroft has the highest public profile of all of Zane's children, tall, dark and gorgeous; he is the cover boy of Washington and darling of the socialites. His public image of a rich and eligible bachelor only adds to his aura. As head of 'One', a philanthropic organisation dedicated to helping better the lives of the people of the world, as well as subtly pushing the doctrine of a 'one world' everything, has given Bobby a saviour like image that has allowed him to push along the globalist agenda.

"You really do live up to your nickname, don't you," a charming female voice says.

Bobby turns around and is confronted by the lovely socialite and famed cello player, Rachelle Cipriano; shoulder length blonde hair, blue eyes, at 32 years of age she strikes an elegant and desirable figure in her slinky white evening dress that hugs the contours and curves of her shapely figure in all the right places.

Bobby likes what he sees. "Oh, and which nickname is that exactly?"

"Bobby Dazzler," she tells him vivaciously.

"I've always liked that one. I suppose I do come across a bit bright at times, but when you believe passionately in something as I do you can't help but get carried away."

"No need to sell me, Bobby, I've already signed up."

"You know I saw you play once in Vienna," he says.

"That was a long time ago."

"Not so long. Are you performing now?"

"I'm actually here for the season with the Gradinsky Chamber Orchestra."

"Then I'll defiantly come and see you."

"I would hope so."

"I heard you gave up playing for a few years."

"Publically yes, but I still put out a couple of albums," she assures him.

"A pity, such a beautiful talent as yours should always be on display," he tells her warmly, with an arresting smile.

"You like classical music, then?"

"Oh yes," he tells her with enthusiasm, "classical music has stood the test of time and will continue to do so for ages yet to come. I've always had a great love for Mozart and Beethoven. Did you know that Beethoven's 9th Symphony - his 'Ode to Joy' is the most popular and most recognizable piece of classical music in the world, that and his 5th of course?"

"Yes, I am aware."

"Sorry - there I am getting carried away again, of course you would know - forgive me."

"I admire anyone with such zeal for the classics."

"Well, since you admire me so much may I be so bold as to say how utterly beautiful you are."

"You may."

"You're beautiful Miss Cipriano."

"Please, Rachelle," she tells him with a tempting smile.

"Rachelle it is."

The two take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and toast one another.

Bobby Ravenscroft has come a long way.

The Germaine Institute, Boulder Colorado, 2006

A seventeen year old Bobby Ravenscroft plays the violin with gusto opposite his friend, Gavin Hama, who also plays the violin with equal zest. It is a case of duelling violins. They stand in the music room playing in front of their teacher, Mr. Chillcott. The institute is an elite private school for students with exceptional artistic talent. They take in students 14 to 17 years of age, covering all forms of art. It is mainly children from rich families but there are some exceptions. Bobby has come here for a few weeks as part of his Bachelor of Arts degree.

Gavin Hama is here for the same reason. His family is old money who came to prominence during the First World War when Joseph Hama invented a new machine-gun for the Americans, which promptly made the House of Hama exceedingly rich which quickly led to the creation of Hama Armaments & Munitions, one of the leading manufactures' of military hardware. The Hama family became one of the thirteen Illumnati Families after the fall of the House of Renan - who were close allies of the Villons; and went down in flames while trying to take on the Ravenscrofts during the late 80's.

Gavin is an exceptionally talented and smart young lad with a good ear for music and long nimble fingers for the fiddle. But he lacks the dogged determination and win at all costs attitude of his friend Bobby. The musical showdown is the Violin Concert by Schoenberg, notoriously difficult to play on so many levels - technically, musically, and dynamically. A very tough piece indeed to put over because of its spiky, serial language, and most violinist are scared stiff of it.

But these two always love a challenge.

They are as thick as thieves and share a lot of things together including the occasional girl. But today they are combatants. Their playing isn't flawless; naturally going at such a pace causes one to drop a note or two - Gavin more so than Bobby who is like a man possessed by a demon. His movements are quick - precise - sharp; it is as if he were wielding a sword rather than a bow. Both lads are sweating profusely but this doesn't stop or even slow down either from continuing. They grin like mad men at one another, trying to psyche the other out.

It works.

Gavin can't help but start to laugh.

Bobby makes an even sillier grin and that is the end of Gavin. He gives up, his fingers and arms aching to high heaven, but he is in a good mood.

"Damn you Ravenscroft," he decries. Bobby's smile is as wide and big as the Joker's as he plays a few more notes before bringing his rendition to a dramatic and climatic end. "And that's how you do it!" Bobby shouts in triumph as if he just scored the winning touchdown.

"Bravo," Mr. Chillcott calls out with applause. There is a hidden sadistic side to Mr. Chillcott, who secretly enjoys pitting his students against one another. "Next time we must try Sibelius. If you two can handle it, that is?"

"Bring it on," Booby says.

"Anytime," Gavin concurs.

"Sibelius it is then," Chillcott agrees, "although we'll have to think of some handicaps next time to make it more interesting."

"Anything to help poor Gavin."

"Oh shut up you prick."

"The less talented are always jealous of their betters."

Gavin raises his eyebrows. "Oh spare me."

"I'm just stating a fact, right Mr. Chillcott."

"Yes, you're the better player Bobby, but you're no slouch either Gavin, never forget that," he hastily adds. "It's just that Bobby always wants it more and is willing to do whatever it takes. An admirable quality and one you need, to succeed in life and in music and a violinist is always up to his chin in music."

This brings happy smiles to the students.

"Okay scram," Chillcott tells them, "I've got better things to do with my time."

Bobby and Gavin pack up their instruments and go to leave but are halted at the door by Mr. Chillcott's voice. "Oh lads, do you still recall my brief lesson in music?"

They grin and reply in unison. "B-sharp, never B-flat, always B-natural."

That afternoon Bobby and Gavin sit in the cafeteria digging into a chicken parmigiana and chips. They sit by the bay window with the city of Boulder spread out beneath them. The modern dining facilities are half filled with students and teachers. The Germaine Institute is relatively new having only been in existence for fifteen years, set up by the globalist and self confess patron of the arts Hans Wolfe Germaine.

"What's on the agenda for tonight?" Bobby enquires.

"Judith Krantz."

"You're still doing that piece of ass?"

"What can I say it's a great ass." Judith Krantz is a local girl and part-time waitress at Al's Diner nearby. She is one of the few ladies shared by them.

"And you?"

"I don't know, there's not much variety left," he tells his friend as he glances around the room. "Except her perhaps."

Gavin looks in the direction Bobby is staring and sees a cute seventeen year old girl with a pear shape figure sitting at a corner table eating alone. "That's that new chick - oh what's her name?"

"Nadia Destry," Bobby informs him.

"You sly dog. Are you going to need a wingman on this one?"

Bobby soaks up the sight of Nadia Destry.

A plump figure, but not fat, more voluptuous, and a very attractive face with expressive eyes and wavy brown hair that is always tied into short pigtails, brown eyes and full lips all adding to the sexual allure. She has a shy nature, Bobby has already ascertained this and the fact that she isn't from any rich family and she is here only because of the Bartman Scholarship.

Apparently she is quite talented.

Although Booby isn't the least bit interested in such triviality.

"No thanks buddy," he finally replies, "I think I'll go solo on this one. Perhaps when I've unwrapped it I'll give you a bite."

"Greedy bastard."

Bobby smirks at his friend.

Nadia sits at an easel painting an abstract landscape. Although bleak and filled with dark colours, there is a beauty to her haunted looking painting. She sits alone in the art room of the school, easy listening music plays on the radio in the background. As her brush flows across the canvas she is deep in thought, loosing herself in her painting, blocking out the reality of the real world. Nadia has not known a lot of kindness in her young life; her parents dying when she was nine, being brought up by her aunty and uncle, who had an unhealthy and sometimes violent marriage, both coming across as cold fish to Nadia. Yet despite it all she overcame the odds and did well at school and her artistic talent could take her a long way. Her painting is perhaps a window into her soul, insecure and anxiety problems are a couple of demons that beset her. She is a person who really needs someone to show her a little kindness, unfortunately she gets Bobby Ravenscroft.

"I like what you're painting," he says smoothly. Nadia is startled. "I'm terribly sorry - I didn't mean to frighten you."

"No - no, it's alright," she stammers a reply.

"I didn't mean to intrude, if you want I can leave," he offers politely but in reality has no intention of doing so.

"Um...that's okay I was just about to finish up."

"My names Bobby by the way."

"Nadia."

"Please to meet you."

"Likewise." Nadia starts to pack up her brushes.

"Tell me something, do you know much about the interplay between names and destiny?"

Nadia gives a quick giggle, taken aback by such an absurd question. "No."

But Bobby has a plan. "The letter N, for Nadia, is usually associated with negativity and pessimism and yet it enjoys a loving friendship with the dignified and daring letter D."

Nadia shoots Bobby a queer look.

"Bear with me," he adds hastily. "When N and D get together they express the benign and thoughtfulness found in such words as: candid, tender, kind, bland, and mindful. Now, these qualities aren't in the names of people who make headlines but rather those that go about their business in a deliberate fashion and make the best out of what they have. Am I right in assuming you having these qualities."

Nadia doesn't know what to say to this. Yet she likes the gentle sound of Bobby's voice.

"NDs have the ability to adapt to just about any situation," he continues, "so; I talking to you like this shouldn't be a problem."

Nadia laughs.

"Ahh - as I thought, also warm, talented and gracious," he tells her with great charm.

"Where did you come up with this stuff?"

"Oh I've always had an interest in people's names and the power or destiny that is associated with them."

"Really and what else do NDs have?"

"Oh, let's see, NDs often choose to follow their own star when it comes to their personal life and their hobbies lean towards solo pursuits such as painting and listening to music."

"You're just saying that," she tells him.

"No, no, honestly, whatever they chose to do will bear their own unique stamp. When I look at this painting I know straight away that you have had some rough times in your life. But you have come through them and are all the better for suffering such trials and tribulations, even though you may not see it as such now...Nadia."

Nadia falls silent and contemplative. The sound of her name on this stranger's lips sounds so sweet and even a little erotic. She suddenly and for no real reason finds herself fantasying what it would be like to be kissed by this person. She quickly pulls her thoughts back from where they are going. "That's nice of you to say so," she blurts out.

"It's all in the name," he tells her.

"What about Bobby?"

Bobby grins, a roguish smile but one to break the heart. "Yes, well, the letter B is the emblem of all things brash and brazen."

"Yes, there is an unmistakable air of aggression and assertion about you."

"I hope that doesn't frighten you or put you off. I can come across as too strong at times, it's a flaw in my nature," he tells her with genuine bullshit.

She laps it up. "Some people would call that honesty."

"Perhaps, but it does get me into trouble at times. It's just that when I saw you I saw a kindred spirit, a gentle soul that I really wanted to meet and perhaps, if you're willing, get to know more."

"I don't have time for dishonesty, Bobby," she says.

"I'll always be honest with you, Nadia."

"You promise?"

"Sure."

The two share a smile and so begins the seduction and destruction of Nadia Destry.

It takes Bobby a little over two weeks to get Nadia into bed. She proves quite the challenge for him. Although he is only interested in conquest, she on the other hand falls for him in a big way. The dinners, the outings, the kindness he shows her all give the impression of genuine interest. Nadia's fragile psyche can't help but latch on to him, hoping that perhaps she has found in him, what Bobby calls, a kindred spirit. She couldn't be further from the truth.

In fact Gavin and Bobby have a bet on the side.

A small wager of one dollar, on how long it will take for Bobby to get into her pants. Gavin says two and a half weeks. Bobby, always coemptive, took up the challenge with great vigour and won the bet with one day to spare.

Nadia and Bobby sit on his sofa in his dorm room, kissing. An empty pizza box and a half drunk bottle of wine rest on the coffee table. Bobby intends to have his prize tonight. He even spiked Nadia's drink with a few extra spirits that were recommended by his older brother, Damon. For Nadia's part, she is a little nervous, but the combination of alcohol and Bobby is making her more relaxed and loose all the time. Booby has been so sweet and nice to her that she is eager to have more of him. Bobby slips his hand beneath her top and onto her breast. She grabs his hand with the intention of pulling it away, but her willpower is going and there is no strength to her gesture.

Bobby whispers sweet words into her ear, tender, loving, deceitful. Lies of desire. He plies her with more wine and more expressions of want and passion. Nadia gives in completely.

He takes her onto the bed and begins to smother her with hot kisses. He removes her clothing and then his own. He offers his erection to her. She takes it and wraps her mouth around it, stroking it with her hands and lapping it up with her mouth. The combination of lust, alcohol and drugs has put Nadia into not only a state of euphoria but also compliance, her mental barriers down and her sense of judgement impaired. Whereas Bobby has all his wits about him.

He soon spreads her out and enters her. Nadia cries out, moaning about how much she cares for him - perhaps even loves him. Bobby is mute apart from his own moans of pleasure as he partakes of the fruit of a young and fragile woman. How long the love making lasts or how many times he comes, Nadia does not know, her mind is clouded, time passes in a blur as she treads a fine line between pleasure and pain. As she sits astride Bobby her eyes see another man sitting in the corner silently watching. When he entered the room or how long ago she has no idea, but she recognizes the voyeur - it is Mr. Chillcott. She wants to tell Bobby but somehow senses that he already knows.

Bobby pulls her down closer to him, her breasts crushed against his flat chest. Bobby whispers sweetly into her ear about a surprise he has for her. His warm, sweat covered body pressed up against her offering comfort, even as Mr. Chillcott stands, strips off, comes to the bed and enters her from behind. All the while Bobby continues his sweet nothings as his erection grows even harder inside of her. Nadia screams at the double penetration. Bobby quickly smothers her cries with his lips, holding her body even tighter. Mr. Chillcott is not a pleasant lover, he is rough and uncaring and Nadia soon finds herself falling over the line from pleasure and into pain.

That pain only increases with the arrival of Gavin Hama.

It is a long night.

Nadia is in a state of despair. Her life in ruins. She feels unclean and dirty, a filth that she can't wash from her body. The days after her night with Bobby showed her how wrong her feelings of love for him were and yet she still has those feelings. Despite the cold shoulder and the break up, although Bobby told her that it really isn't a break up as they haven't been seeing each other for very long.

"It was fun while it lasted," he had told her, "we had a good time but I'm not interested in a steady relationship. You're a lovely woman, Nadia, any man would be lucky to have you - but I'm not that man."

It ended there. He left her life as abruptly as he entered it.

Over the last few days she grew more disgusted with herself. Especially as the clouded memories of that night clarify within her mind and surface. _What a bloody fool I am_. She tried to speak to Bobby again but he ignored her, pushed her away like he was swatting a fly. The worse part of it was Mr. Chillcott. He pursued her and still does. He wants to see more of her. She fled from him knowing the pain of the flesh that awaits behind his closed door. But he is persistent and manipulative and Nadia's brittle mental state does not help her. She should report him but doesn't. Her dumb feelings of love towards Bobby prevent her. She knows that he has done to other women like he did to her and probably involving Mr. Chillcott or his friend Gavin. But Nadia has always been a fool, constantly making the wrong decisions and this was just one more in a long line of wrong turns.

She looks at her blood covered hand.

Her mind goes blank wondering where the blood came from.

Then she remembers.

She had gone to Bobby's room hoping to talk to him, to see if he meant anything that he said to her. If not, then she was resolved to report the whole sordid affair. But Bobby was not there. She knocked and knocked before entering his room. The room instantly brought back the memories of that night. She turned to leave but was confronted by Mr. Chillcott. He closes the door behind him.

"I've been looking for you," he says softly.

"Please let me leave."

"We have unfinished business first."

He moved toward her and grabbed her. A deadly lust in his eyes. She struggled but his light build was deceptive, he is quite strong. "It'll only hurt a bit," he tells her, "but you'll grow to enjoy the pain. I can show you how." Nadia feels her will slipping as he pulls her to his body and slowly turning her around his hands moving down her thigh and beneath her dress toward her panties. She feels his fingers clasp them and jerk them down. Something snaps inside of her and she lashes out. Her hands grasping a nearby envelope opener. She plunges it deep into his jugular. Blood covers her hand. He staggers back his hands clawing at his throat trying to staunch the blood. He crumbles to the floor. Gurgling noise emanates from his throat as he tries to speak. His legs twitch in uncontrolled spasms. He wets himself. He dies within seconds. A shocked Nadia leaves the room with the smell of blood and urine choking her. Luckily the dorm is empty. It is late. She makes her way to the stairs in a trance like state. Finally ending up at the darkened indoor swimming pool.

_What to do?_ But she knows the answer. She has considered doing it many times before. But each time she has found the strength to turn away \- but not this time. She moves to the pools edge and jumps in.

She makes her way to the deepest end of the pool and drowns herself. She has always heard that drowning, once you let yourself go, wasn't a bad way to die. As Nadia holds onto the small grate at the bottom of the pool she discovers that this too is a lie.

New York City

"Damnit all, Bobby, what the hell is wrong with you?" Zane asks in a barely controlled rage.

"This is not my doing," he offers in defence, "she was a fucked up bitch - as was Mr. Chillcott." Bobby is profoundly shaken. He hates it when his father is angry or disappointed in him. He sits in his father's office at 'Ravenscroft Holdings' like someone standing trial, only his old man is judge and jury.

"He was found in your room and you had relations with this girl. No doubt you treated her the same way as the others. Didn't you have any notion of her mental state?"

"No," he lies.

"What is wrong with you Bobby? Where does this part of you come from? I don't understand. You're bright, intelligent; you have a golden future ahead of you. Why? Why do such things?"

"I...I don't know," he confesses.

Zane truly feels the urge to throttle his son - but controls it.

"This is going to cost a considerable amount of money and a few favours to cover up; you know that, don't you."

Bobby nods. The tone of disapproval in his father's voice is like a stake through the heart. "I'm sorry."

"These cruel urges of yours must stop. You're almost eighteen and it's time you started taking responsibility for your actions and the consequences of them."

"I know, but there is such a burning competiveness in me to win at all costs and when I want something - I want it," he explains in his final summation to the jury.

"That's good, because in our line of work you need that edge, but you also need to curtail, control your vices, because others will exploit them, use them against you and against the family. And no matter what they must never come to the public's attention. Your success, son, will depend on the image you project to the world, whether to those in power or on the street. It will be the difference between success and failure."

"Yes, father, I understand what you're saying."

"I'm proud of you, I'm proud of all you have achieved and I will be proud of what you will achieve," he tells him in a conciliatory manner, but adds in a more forceful tone, "but these other things must never happen again. Do I make myself clear?"

Booby nods.

"I don't want to be having another of these conversations ever again."

"Yes, I understand, truly I do," he eagerly tells his father. Bobby idolises his father and would do anything to please him. In his eyes Zane can do no wrong. But there would always be one sore point as far as Bobby is concerned.

New York, 2014

Bobby is once more in his father's office talking with great enthusiasm about 'One', the newly created organization they have set up to help bring about the 'Work of Ages'. Bobby is telling Zane about the various different governments of the world that he has managed to sign up and support 'One'. And although happy and proud at what his son is achieving, Zane's attention is elsewhere.

He has the Argonauts away game on the wall TV and this is where his focus is, especially on Chuck Benson.

"Father, are you listening?"

"Yes, yes, great news. Chuck's tearing them up, you know that. He'll take us all the way this year. Damn, what a player." Zane's over enjoyment and pride in his star player is so evidently plastered across his face. This fills Bobby with stone cold jealousy and a suppressed rage. When it comes to Chuck Benson, Bobby always feels as if he is competing for his father's attention. It has always been this way ever since he first met Chuck. He has never liked him and although he is a great athlete Bobby hasn't been able to understand why his father has such pride in a jock.

"That's it Chuck - crush 'em," Zane shouts out.

"Dad,"

"I'm listening."

"Are you really?"

"Yes, yes," he replies without a lot of conviction.

Over the last few years Bobby has been able to overcome and control cruel elements of his nature. He is fast becoming the shining light within the House of Ravenscroft - the golden lad and poster boy of the new order. But every time he thinks of his father's fervor for Chuck Benson, Bobby can't help but find all of his darker tenderises rise up like some leviathan from the deep abyss threatening to swallow him whole.

"Father, could you please drag yourself away from the TV for five fucking minutes why we discuss things."

Zane shoots Bobby a look that stops him dead in his tracks. "Don't ever take that tone with me."

"Sorry - it's just that we have so much to talk about." Bobby can never argue with his father.

"Alright, I'm coming," Zane tells him as he somewhat reluctantly switches off the game. "Now, you were saying?"

Bobby regathers himself, including his emotions and then begins to continue with his report on the progress of 'One'. But deep down inside of him the creature named jealously continues to lurk and for no apparent reason that he can put his finger on, Bobby is sure that his father prefers Chuck Benson over him and that he will always be competing for his father's affection and approval.

Washington D.C., Present Day

Rachelle Cipriano enters Bobby's Georgetown townhouse. She has come to see Bobby's violin collection including a very expensive Stradivarius. The house is filled with expensive furnishings and art and is immaculately spotless and clean, and there is plenty of free space giving one a feeling of openness.

"It's extraordinary," Rachelle exclaims as she admires the Stradivarius violin behind its illuminated glass case; the centrepiece of the living room. "I once held the "Lady Blunt" many years ago, but this; this is the Rose, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"It must be nice to afford a beautiful thing like this."

"I was actually out bided on the "Macdonald" two years ago at Sotheby's."

"That's the one where the asking price was forty million pounds or something, wasn't it?"

"Forty-five actually and that was the minimum asking price. Drink?"

"A small scotch."

"Of course." Bobby fixes the drinks.

"You live a rich life."

"I've been lucky to be born a Ravenscroft."

"Indeed."

"Here you go," he says proffering the glass of scotch.

"Thank you." She takes the glass and has a sip.

"Would you like to hold it?"

"Yes please," she replies enthusiastically.

"Good."

Bobby unlocks the case and hands her the violin as delicately as if he were handling a new born baby. Rachelle is in awe as she marvels at the craftsmanship. To any violinist holding a Stradivarius is like drinking from the Holy Grail. "Remarkable."

While Rachelle admires the violin Bobby is admiring her. Imagining what she would be like stripped naked beneath him. He has been fantasying all night the delicate delights that lie beneath her dress. "A Stradivarius is nothing compared to you beauty, Rachelle."

Rachelle gives him a sly look. She then carefully places the violin back in its case. "There are other nicknames for you, Bobby Dazzler."

"Really?"

"You have a reputation as a lady killer."

"I just admire beautiful things, whether that is a violin, a piece of art or a beautiful woman."

"And then you acquire them?"

"Yes."

"And am I to be one of your acquisitions?" she asks with curiosity.

"I would like that very much."

"Well, perhaps you should try the merchandise before you buy it." Rachelle then leans in close to Bobby and kisses him on the lips. He responds in kind. The kiss is long and lingering. Bobby wants more but Rochelle pulls away.

"Well?"

"I'll take it."

"I must be going," she informs him.

"What? But..."

"It'll take more than a Stradivarius to own me."

Bobby can't help hide his disappointment.

"But please don't give up on me," she urges, "I'm worth it I assure you." Rachelle puts down her glass and without another word slips out of Bobby's grasp and into the street. A number of emotions run through Bobby's mind including joy at the challenge that has been laid before him and Bobby always loves a challenge. But the one emotion that suddenly overrules them all is anger - cold rage at being scorned. Rachelle Cipriano had made a terrible mistake tonight and Bobby would make sure she paid for it.

One way or the other.

"Bitch," he mumbles softly.

He then smashes his glass of scotch against the wall before angrily grabbing the Stradivarius and smashing it to pieces against the glass coffee table.

### CHAPTER 18

New York City

The reception hall of the Ravenscroft Centre is busy with technicians and caterers putting the final touches for tonight's gala function for the 'Sunshine Foundation', a charity dedicated to helping better the lives of children around the world. The annual benefit is always a stellar event attracting the rich and the famous. Eleanor, one of the board members of the organization, is overseeing the event, making sure that everything will be in place.

She is meticulous and overbearing, giving Morgan La Faye, the events planner, many headaches.

"Everything has to be perfect, there can be no slip ups," she drones on, "did you call Wiseman - the bands all set I trust; oh and make damn sure the mayor is not seated next to his mistress this time; did you call the florist? - good, the flowers must be fresh - I want to see the dew on their petals; as for Macintosh, tell him if I catch him screwing any of the waitress's this time he's out on his arse - tell him if he can't keep it zipped up to go stand in the freezer to cool off; and please Morgan, tell the chef to take extra care when serving the shrimp this time, at the Brokoff party the guests were running to the toilet every five minutes."

Morgan simply nods his head automatically in agreement with anything Eleanor says regardless whether it is right or wrong - it makes his job easier. He is one of the best organizers in the business, he has dealt with first ladies, movie stars, pop stars, royalty, even a crime boss, but Eleanor Ravenscroft always manages to give him an ulcer.

As she does this, Chuck Benson and his girlfriend Latasha enter the hall. Chuck is one of the main celebrity sponsors of the charity, a cause that is very dear to his own heart.

"Looks as if it's going to be a real big bash tonight," Latasha exclaims.

"It always is, a lot of important people will be here."

"None more so than you baby."

"I don't know about that, plus I've always got to make these blasted speeches."

"They will love you no matter what. You're every body's hero," Latasha reassures her man, knowing full well how nervous he can get at times when speaking in public.

"You sure you have to go?" he asks.

"Yes, sweetie, I do."

"Really and truly? I could make it worth your while."

"Tempting."

"C'mon on."

"I would like nothing more, but Bettie has been my best friend since grade school and there's no way I can miss her hen's night, you know that."

"Okay, but no messing with the strippers alright."

"Don't worry baby, they don't have what you've got," she says with a wicked smile.

"That goes for you to."

"Alright I must dash, but I'll see you tomorrow night." She kisses Chuck goodbye. "Love you."

"Love you," he says in kind as Latasha exits the hall.

"Chuck, how good to see you once again," Eleanor proclaims with delight as she comes up to greet him.

"Mrs Ravenscroft, you're looking as lovely as always."

"You sweet, sweet thing, you always know what to say to a lady."

"I try."

"Now, we've got a lot to talk about," she says taking his arm and walking him around the hall. "Have you memorised your speech for tonight?"

"Yes, but I like to wing some of it - it's hard to remember at times when the spotlight is on you."

"Just be yourself darling, that's all that matters. People love you, they'll be glad to shake your hand and have their photo taken with you. I'm hoping we'll easily raise five to eight million tonight."

"It's a great cause and money well spent."

"Indeed it is, you should be very proud of the work you have done my dear. The 'Sunshine Foundation' wouldn't have gotten as far as it has without your generous participation."

"I try my best, that's all I ever do."

"That's why you're so good, that's why you're a great footballer and a great humanitarian. And you know my husband is very proud of you Chuck, you know that don't you."

"I hope so; I owe Zane - Mr. Ravenscroft a lot. He's done so much for my career. In point of fact I don't know where I would be if it wasn't for him."

"My husband is a great judge of character."

"Well, tell him that I'm going to do my best to win him the Lombardi Trophy this year."

"I will, but he knows that. Now, shall we go over your speech?"

"Sure, by the way what time should I be here by tonight?"

"Seven would be good," Eleanor tells him.

"Okay."

As Eleanor proceeds to go over Chuck's speech with him she gives all the outward signs of a warm and friendly person, a cordial atmosphere surrounds her discussion with her husband's bastard. But inwardly, Eleanor is a seething mess of anger, resentment and bitterness. It is all she can do to stop from throwing up as she looks at Chuck Benson and sees not a good human being standing in front of her, but rather an insult, an indignation inflicted on her by her lying cheating husband. It is bad enough that Chuck is a sporting superstar but Zane's pride in him - his admiration of him has always been a thorn in Eleanor's side. But one she intends to pull out. Eleanor has a sinister plan, a way to hurt Zane like never before, and it all centres around Chuck.

There is no passion of the human heart that promises so much as that of revenge.

Avalon, the Hamptons

Zane arrives home after his emotional and exhausting trip to Brussels. He is greeted in the entrance way by Samuels, the house steward; who has been in charge of the running of the estate for over forty years, although in his late 60's he is still very sprite and very loyal.

"I trust your trip was satisfactory, sir?" he enquires congenially.

"Tiring, Samuels, tiring."

"Well, it's always good to see you home safe, sir, after all home is where you can put your feet up and let your hair down, sir."

Zane smiles, Samuels always has some home spun wisdom no matter the occasion.

"I've just made a fresh batch of martinis sir; it's waiting for you in the living room."

"Thank you, Samuels. By the way, is Eleanor home, I need to speak with her?"

"Have you forgotten, sir, tonight's the children's benefit."

"Oh - that's right," Zane says remembering what day it is.

"Though, she did mention to me that she would be home tonight but that it would be late."

"Very well, Samuels, that will be all."

"Very good sir."

Zane heads for the martini jug and pours himself a glass, dropping two olives in it. His thoughts are still a wash with emotions about Sam, his grandson and Alyssa and the mere thought of her makes him sad. "Fuck," he mumbles and quickly pours himself a second martini trying to get his rampant feelings under control. He so desperately wants to talk to Eleanor, to tell her the news of Eric.

He has even begun to believe that perhaps they could finally patch things up between them - or at least begin the process in earnest. He knows it won't be easy but that doesn't mean it can't be achieved. But Eleanor isn't home. _Perhaps later_ , he muses.

Zane next takes a trip to the West Wing and visits his mother, Sophia. She sits, as usual, in her bedroom, staring out the window into oblivion, while Margaret gently brushes her hair. Margaret sees Zane and smiles warmly. "Sophia, dear, your son, Zane is here."

"Mother," he says in greeting. He makes his way over to her.

"She's had a good day today, Zane," Margaret informs him.

"That's wonderful."

"Sophia, aren't you going to say hello to Zane."

Sophia turns her head in his direction and smiles with a look of recognition upon her face. "Henry - you've come home." Zane's disappointment is evident.

"Not Henry, Sophia, Zane," Margaret tells her.

"I haven't seen Zane for so long; do you know where he is?" Sophia asks.

"I'm right here."

"You're not, Zane, you're Henry".

"No mother, I'm Zane, your son, don't you remember?"

"Are you playing games with me, Henry?" And then she is once more gone, her mind caught in a continuous quagmire of forgetfulness.

"I'm sorry, dear," Margaret says sympathetically.

"That's alright."

Margaret reaches out and places a comforting hand on Zane's arm. "You seem troubled?"

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Later."

"Are you sure? I have time now."

"Later...over cocktails."

"Alright, but I'll be here if you need me, you know that."

"I know."

"Good, then."

"And thanks."

"No need."

Zane smiles with gratitude at his aunt and then before leaving he does something that he hasn't done in years. He bends down and gives his mother a loving and gentle kiss on the cheek and tells her. "I love you." This response and sudden show of affection from her nephew completely catches Margaret off guard. Now she knows that something is really troubling him, but she keeps her peace - for the moment.

At a loss as to what to do, Zane decides to go outside and take a walk around the estate, something he hasn't done for quite some time. He starts off by making his way to the old private zoo that is now empty, run down and overgrown with grass and weeds. He soon finds himself standing in front of the empty lion's cage and remembering Shaka and recalling how proud the animal was even in captivity and how strong. A lion's strength that Zane has always carried with him, ever since that night long ago when Shaka passed away at his feet. A sudden gust of wind whips up and quickly dies away but for a moment Zane swears he could hear the distant sound of a lion's roar.

He shivers. "Ghosts...nothing more."

He moves off.

Before long he finds himself following in the footsteps of when he was a kid, going to all the spots that he and Alyssa visited. He walks through the maze still filled with its topiary in the shape of mythical creatures, finally coming to the heart of the maze and the Minotaur. The memories of the past overwhelm him. He smells Alyssa's perfume. He remembers their first kiss - her smile - her laughter - her joy at being alive. He follows these spirits of the past until they lead him to the spot where she died. Although many of the trees have been cleared out long ago he knows that he is in the right place. For this was where his childhood ended.

"Alyssa," he whispers. Calling out her name hoping that she would answer. But of course she's dead. Zane plops down onto the ground, his emotions once more getting the better of him.

Tears form in his eyes.

The past looms up before him like a giant wall.

He wants to turn away.

He wants to run.

But he can't.

How he's life changed the day Alyssa died and not for the better. She was his first love, his one true love, even more so than perhaps Eleanor. He wonders how different his life could have been - or would have been had she lived. _Would my life be the same or different? Would I even be the same man?_ Before that dreaded day he was innocent, pure, as was Alyssa, the world hadn't tainted her when she died, but it tainted him afterwards. _How corrupted I've become._

Zane has never believed in an afterlife, a God or a heaven; the terrible things his kind have wrought upon people, upon the world has convinced him of this. And yet he wonders. If there is a Devil and many within the houses of the Illumnati worship him - have rituals to honour him - to worship the darkness; then perhaps there is another side to the coin. He has often wondered, particular of late, what he would say, if after he died, he has to sit at the table of accountability and answer for his actions in this world.

What would I say? How would I answer? What would be my atonement?

He shakes his head. "Crazy, stupid thoughts," he chides himself.

And yet they persist.

Haunting him.

Taunting him.

Mocking him.

"I need to get a grip - or a fucking shrink," he tells himself out loud. He wipes the tears from his cheeks and stands getting a grip on himself. But then he recalls something else. He looks around, wandering off until he finds it, the old gnarled oak tree that has stood guardian of these lands for centuries. Zane approaches the tree and sees faded and wind torn but still visible for all to see, the simple words he carved in the tree long ago: 'Z loves A'. He slowly reaches up and places the palm of his hand upon the carving as if it were some magical talisman.

And perhaps it is.

Zane knows it's pointless to relive the past as it's only filled with regrets, lost opportunities and lost moments. _You can't undo what's done_. _You have to live in the here - and now and in the moment._ But that doesn't mean you can't change the present, start doing things differently, and in turn change what is yet to come.

Zane is literally an uncrowned king. "So why not be a good one?" he asks out loud. Just like in the children' story that Alyssa told him many years ago in the attic. Zane knows that his way of thinking has changed of late, when or how this occurred he does not know. No doubt it has been a gradual process that is only now becoming clearer. _Fuck me_.

Zane has a lot to think about, a lot to consider, but for the first time in a long, long time, he feels good about himself.

While Zane Ravenscroft toils with his ghosts of the past, present, and future; fifteen thousand feet in the air above, Grozny Zhukovsky sits comfortably aboard a private jet as it descends for landing in the United States.

He is calm.

He is peaceful.

He is confident.

Judgement day is coming for the House of Ravenscroft.

Grozny is flying in upon wings of vengeance.

And hell is coming with him.

Along with death and destruction.

The balance of power in the world of the elite is about to shift and change forever.

" _And thus did Gaia unleash the mighty Typhoon to wrought havoc upon Mount Olympus and Zeus for revenge against her fallen titans."_

(From the myths of ancient Greece)

This ends the second volume in the Throne of Olympus trilogy.
