Third Person POV:
New York, USA
Kings lose their thrones.
Power is nothing without control. Empires fall, but the ones that plummet are led by kings and queens who misinterpret their duties. One can lead, one can control, but one cannot do both.
The king and the throne are two separate entities, two compounding powerhouses that stay in power as long as they feed off of one another. The king, held up by a dutiful throne responsible for controlling its empire, leads the masses through the influence of that very throne. The throne, the unseen hand behind the king's reign, works quietly as its hands seep into every crack and over every surface until its grip grows so tight, it becomes impenetrable.
One cannot rule without the other. One cannot stay in power without the other; and when one side falls, the carefully created foundations of an empire start to crack.
"Come on, come on, pick up."
'You have now reached the voicemail box of Reese Vanderbilt, please leave a message at the tone.'
Fear didn't even begin to describe it. Classifying the emotion that currently rushed through Jonathon's veins as simple as fear would be a gross misjudgement. No, this was not fear. This was terror. Continuing to pace up and down the hallway, he turned his phone over in his hand, then he did it again and again and again. When that failed to alleviate the growing tension in his chest, he took off his jacket, then he loosened his tie.
Truth be told, Jonathon didn't know what he was doing. His erratic behavior was profoundly uncharacteristic on his part but right now he just didn't know what to do. All he knew was that he couldn't be in that boardroom a second longer, the room that he had been holed up in for the past hour and half as he watched his daughter lead an army into the Autonomous Port of Paris. For an hour and a half, the yacht cameras provided him a feed, for an hour and a half the comms gave him audio, for an hour and a half he had eyes and ears on his daughter and then suddenly, nothing.
The feed went out, the audio went out, and no one had an explanation for what had just occurred. That last remaining truck, those last two teams, that last bit of the American-English-Italian army that included his daughter, went completely radio-silent on enemy territory and none of his people, Stephen's people, or Alexander's people could tell him why.
Upon calling Alexander, his panic only grew. The Italian Don was on a three-way call with his brothers who were practically yelling from inside the narcotics filled semi-trucks still en-route to Italy, that teams five and six were not responding through their comms. The trucks were ordered to stop but there was little they could do. If they turned around then they would be taking a resource exhausted army and twenty tons of cocaine back towards a red zone that would now undoubtedly be swarming with French soldiers. Alex could send fresh soldiers and fresh gear over the border but their arrival would take hours. That meant teams five and six were on their own.
His daughter was on her own.
"Ry. Track her again." He ordered, eyes beginning to burn.
The A.I was quick to speak out loud. "I'm sorry sir, results are inconclusive. I cannot find Miss Vanderbilt's location."
"That's fucking impossible!" He gritted out, looking at the ceiling of the Vanderbilt estate. "The tracker is in her, it has never not worked! She created it herself, so why the fuck can't you find her!"
"Sir, I am receiving no signal. If you look at your phone, you will see a geographical map that shows where each individual tracker is. Your location, Miss sangha's location and Mr Williams' location is displayed clearly. Miss Vanderbilt's location is not. The last signal I received from the tracker was twenty minutes ago, on the Port of Paris. The signal is no longer there."
Jonathon glared down at his phone. "How is that possible?"
"There are only a few explanations sir. Either the tracker was removed and destroyed, but that possibility is highly unlikely since the tech is microscopic in nature. The tracker could also be underground, causing the Cryptic satellite to stop receiving a signal, but that possibility is also very unlikely."
Jonathon frowned. "Why is that unlikely?"
"The Cryptic satellite is incredibly powerful. Miss Vanderbilt would have to be over two thousand meters underground for the signal to be blocked."
"What are the other explanations?" He sighed, trying to ignore the burning sensation in his chest.
"There is only one last one sir. The tracker could be burned off. Acid or fire can cause the tracker to be destroyed."
A brutal tremor ripped through his body. "Fuck." He couldn't help how his voice cracked as he re-dialed Reese's number. "Come on, Ree."
'You have now reached the voicemail box of Reese Vand--"
He let out a harsh breath, sinking down to the floor. Pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, he shut his eyes. It was getting increasingly painful to breathe. He clutched his phone tightly in his hands as he waited for her to call back. It would be any moment now, Reese was going to call back and then everything would be fine, he would be fine.
Any moment now.
When footsteps approached the inside of the boardroom doors, Jonathon opened his eyes and rose to his feet. It was juvenile but as the doors opened, hope bloomed in his chest. His team could have heard back from Reese, from one of the soldiers, from Carver. Anyone could have called and then his nightmare would come to a stop.
For a split second, the pain vanished and a faint ringing started in his ear as he waited, but then Pria stepped through the doors. His hope-filled eyes met her haunted ones and he knew. He knew before Pria's trembling lips uttered the words, he knew before his phone and watch started blaring with calls, and he knew before the same heart that was tenderly fixed, piece by piece by an eighteen-year-old girl that he loved more than life itself, shattered in his chest.
Pria let out a sob.
The ringing in his ears turned into screaming.
"No." This. This was cruel. He hadn't asked for anything once in his entire life. He hadn't complained or begged or cried for a different story. Not when his parents told him that they never wanted a kid, not when his friends turned their backs on him, not even when he almost lost his empire. He didn't care about those things, he didn't need those things. In the entirety of his forty-five years of existence he had one thing he cared about unconditionally. One person he would beg for. One person he needed. This. This was cruel.
His daughter. His Ree.
"No." He could feel his shoulders shaking. Tugging at the collar of his shirt, his vision blurred as the hallways tilted to the left. "We don't know for su—" His head pounded furiously. "There's no proof—how do you know that? Reese is not dea—" He opened his mouth but swallowed instead, unable to finish. Anguish pressed down on his chest so violently, he questioned if death would be a mercy.
Pria didn't answer his questions. She sank to the floor, burying her head into her hands, sobbing quietly.
Jonathon shook his head, wiping his tears. "No. Reese is fine. I don't believe you."
He pushed past Pria and stormed into the boardroom. Everyone inside immediately stood up, grief coating their faces as they looked at their stricken Don. Agony ripped through Jonathon's veins.
"Sir—"
"She's not dead." He choked out, anger coating his words. "I don't need your grief or sadness or pity because my daughter is not dead." Rapidly wiping at his cheeks, he glared at the sad eyes of his team. "Get out."
"Sir." A female technician stepped forward slowly, the tears in her eyes seconds away from falling. Her voice was gentle, sad. "We received a video from Henri Baudelaire—"
Jonathon lifted his hand, stopping her from continuing. "Play it." His voice shook but his command was clear.
"Don, I think it's best if you don't—"
"Play. It." He snarled, anger mixing in with the despair he felt in his chest. "Play it and get out."
The technician's shoulders dropped as her eyes reddened even more. "Yes, Don." She whispered quietly. Grabbing a remote from the table, her hands trembled as she pointed to the main TV in the room. When the screen lit up, Jonathon pushed past her and walked up to the screen in a daze.
The video played.
Screams echoed through the speakers.
Pain seared Jonathon's insides as a bloody, coughing body entered the screen. "Ree." He whispered, shaking with the force of his ragged breaths. He watched in distress as Reese struggled to get to her feet. "Come on honey, get up." He encouraged hopefully. "Get up." The tears hadn't stopped falling but he blinked them away, eyes set on his daughter before him. She was on her stomach, half army-crawling, half pushing herself up to stand. She was screaming, her voice hoarse and filled with panic.
"Carver! Carv—"
Henri Baudelaire entered the screen.
Jonathan's blood ran cold.
With a smirking face, Henri reared back his foot and slammed it into Reese's side. She coughed violently, gasping in pain as she collapsed onto her back. "Reese fucking Vanderbilt." He sneered as she looked up at him weakly. "I have been looking forward to this moment for a very, very long time."
Heart hammering in his chest, Jonathon watched as Henri brutally attacked Reese. The French heir slammed his fists into her face, stomach and chest over and over again with an anger so profound, Jonathon had to spin around as he emptied out the contents of his stomach. It felt like someone had knocked the air out of his chest with a single blow. The hurt was so painful, his head screamed while his body answered with agony of its own.
Wiping his mouth, horror and shock had him turning back around towards the screen. Towards his daughter being pummeled. Reese was now limp on the floor, eyes closed. Blood caked her face like a second skin, Henri had beat her so viciously she was close to being unrecognizable.
A suffocating burning sensation crawled up Jonathon's throat as pain lashed out in chest. "She's fine." He croaked out, not knowing who he was talking to. Not registering that shock was turning him hysterical. He hadn't talked to her in a week, he hadn't picked up her calls. His daughter. She tried to call him and he hadn't picked up her calls. He couldn't breathe. "You're not dead, Ree. You wouldn't do that to me. I know you—I know my daughter. My Ree. You're fine. You're not dead. You're not—not dead."
He chanted the words over and over, almost as if the more he said them the closer they would be to being true.
"Jonathon Vanderbilt." He stopped chanting. "I heard you are the occasional chess player." Jonathon sunk down onto his knees as Henri took out his gun. Agony cleaved his insides into two, shredding his organs and extinguishing the dim light that burned faintly in his chest. His face twisted as a sob tore out of his chest. "Ree." He begged, cries punching free from his battered body. "Please baby, don't do this to me. Get up. I'm sorry." He held out his phone in front of him. "Call me honey, I'll pick up. I promise I will."
Almost as if she could hear him, Reese looked up at the camera. Fear shone brightly through the blue-green eyes Jonathon knew better than he knew himself. The ringing in his ears turned piercing. "There is a move in chess. We players call it the ultimate victory, an indefensible takedown. Do you know it? No worries if you don't, I'll tell you what it is."
Throat locked up, the American Don whispered his daughter's name. One last try. One last plea. Just one last time. "Reese."
The gunshot was deafening.
The bullet struck the American heir right in the stomach and three thousand miles away, it struck her dad right in the heart.
Reese Vanderbilt was the American empire's unseen hand that lead them to glory. Jonathon Vanderbilt was the king that played and nurtured that hand.
But kings lose their thrones.
Jonathon Vanderbilt seemed to lose his.
_
forty one (b), will be uploaded at latest by tom. see you then :)
- Eliza