[Ethan’s POV]

"We can’t just cut someone’s hand off, Ethan," Claire said, staring at me across the small wooden table of our Zurich safehouse.

"I wasn’t going to suggest amputation," I said, sliding the loaded magazine into my Glock. "But the private elevators at Sterling & Cross use sub-dermal optical scanners. They don’t just read the fingerprint; they read the blood flow beneath the skin. A piece of tape with a lifted print won’t work. We need a live biometric signature."

"Which means we need a hostage," Claire realized, her brow furrowing. "Someone with Level-5 executive clearance who can walk us right past the lobby guards and into the elevator."

"Exactly," I said, pulling up the dossiers on Claire’s tablet. "Isabella’s inner circle is in chaos after the Hofburg Palace attack. But the debt transfer is happening at noon today. She has to send a proxy to sign the paperwork and defend her assets."

Claire scrolled through the list of Isabella’s surviving lieutenants. She stopped on a photograph of a sharp-featured, arrogant-looking man in his late forties.

"Heinrich Kessler," Claire said. "He’s Isabella’s chief financial officer for her European holdings. He’s a Swiss national, operates exclusively out of Zurich, and he wasn’t at the gala in Vienna. He’s her most trusted money man."

"Does he have clearance at the bank?" I asked.

"He’s a senior account holder," Claire confirmed. "He can bypass the main security checkpoints."

I checked my watch. It was 8:00 AM. We had four hours before Jake walked into that bank and triggered a war with Varga.

"Where is Kessler right now?" I asked.

"According to his public itinerary, he has a standing reservation at a private bathhouse and spa in the financial district every morning at nine," Claire said, her fingers flying across the tablet. "It’s highly exclusive. No cell phones, no bodyguards allowed inside the steam rooms."

"Perfect," I said, grabbing my canvas jacket. "You stay here and coordinate with Nia. Make sure that cyber-attack hits Isabella’s compound at exactly 11:55 AM. I’m going to the spa."

"Ethan," Claire called out as I reached the door. She walked over, her eyes dropping to my stitched shoulder. "Kessler might not have bodyguards inside the steam room, but Varga’s men will be watching the perimeter. If you get made..."

"I won’t," I promised, giving her a reassuring nod. "I’ll be back in an hour. Have the suits ready."

The morning air in Zurich was bitterly cold, the sky a pale, overcast gray. I took a tram into the heart of the financial district, blending in with the morning rush of bankers and corporate lawyers.

The Therme Baur, Kessler’s preferred spa, was an elegant, understated building tucked away on a quiet side street. Two massive men in tailored suits stood near the entrance—Isabella’s PMCs, keeping watch.

I didn’t try the front door. I walked down the adjacent alley, found the service entrance used for laundry deliveries, and picked the lock with my titanium pry bar.

I slipped inside, navigating the labyrinth of tiled hallways until I found the men’s locker room. I quickly stripped off my street clothes, wrapped a thick white towel around my waist, and concealed my ceramic push-dagger inside the folds of the terrycloth.

The steam room was a massive, dimly lit chamber made of dark slate and thick, suffocating clouds of eucalyptus-scented steam. Visibility was less than five feet.

I stepped inside, the intense heat immediately aggravating the fresh stitches in my shoulder. I moved silently through the mist, scanning the stone benches.

There were three other men in the room. Two were older, overweight bankers discussing interest rates in hushed German.

The third man was sitting alone in the far corner, his eyes closed, a cold towel draped over his forehead. Sharp features. Arrogant posture. Heinrich Kessler.

I sat down on the bench next to him, the ceramic dagger resting against my thigh under the towel.

I waited for ten minutes until the two older bankers finally stood up and left the steam room. The heavy glass door clicked shut behind them.

We were alone.

"Mr. Kessler," I said quietly in German.

Kessler didn’t open his eyes. "I do not take business meetings in the baths. Speak to my assistant."

"This isn’t about business," I said, shifting closer. "It’s about Isabella Vane. And the debt transfer happening at noon."

Kessler’s eyes snapped open. He turned his head, his sharp gaze piercing the steam. He took one look at my scarred, bruised face and the cold, dead expression in my eyes, and he knew instantly that I wasn’t a banker.

He opened his mouth to shout for his guards.

I moved faster. I lunged forward, clamping my left hand over his mouth and driving the ceramic dagger upward with my right, pressing the razor-sharp tip directly against the soft flesh under his chin.

Kessler froze, his eyes wide with absolute terror.

"Scream, and I’ll push this blade through the roof of your mouth," I whispered, my face inches from his. "Nod if you understand."

Kessler swallowed hard, a bead of sweat rolling down his nose. He gave a frantic, jerky nod.

"Good," I said, keeping the blade pressed against his throat. "You’re going to stand up. We’re going to walk to your private locker. You’re going to put your suit on, and then we’re going to walk out the back door together. If you signal your guards, if you hesitate, or if you try to run, you die. Understand?"

He nodded again.

I slowly removed my hand from his mouth. He was trembling violently, the arrogant facade completely shattered.

"Who are you?" Kessler choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "Are you with the American? The ghost?"

"I’m the guy making sure the ghost gets what he wants," I said coldly. "Get up."

Ten minutes later, Kessler and I walked out of the service entrance into the freezing alleyway. He was wearing his bespoke suit, and I was wearing a stolen uniform from one of the spa attendants, my Glock pressed firmly against his spine through the fabric of my coat.

"Walk to the street," I ordered. "Hail a cab."

We made it back to the safehouse without incident. When I pushed Kessler through the door, Claire was waiting. She had changed into a sharp, tailored charcoal pantsuit, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe, professional bun. She looked like a high-powered corporate attorney.

Kessler stumbled into the room, looking around frantically. "What do you want from me? I don’t have the bearer bonds! They burned in Vienna!"

"We don’t want your money, Heinrich," Claire said, stepping forward with a roll of heavy-duty zip ties. "We just want your hand."

Kessler paled, backing away. "No. Please—"

"Relax," I said, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him into a wooden chair. "We’re not cutting it off. We just need you to open a door for us."

I zip-tied his wrists to the arms of the chair and his ankles to the legs.

"It’s 11:00 AM," Claire said, checking her watch. "Nia is in position. The cyber-attack on Isabella’s compound launches in fifty-five minutes."

"Then it’s time to go to the bank," I said, pulling Julian Croft’s stolen tuxedo from my duffel bag.

I looked at Kessler, who was sweating profusely in his chair.

"You’re going to walk us into Sterling & Cross," I told the terrified CFO. "You’re going to use your biometric clearance to take us up to the executive boardroom. And then, you’re going to sit quietly in the corner while we wait for the King to arrive."