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"Not if I have an invitation," Olga replied, picking up the tablet. "Victor wants his money clean, right? He’s laundering the auction bids through a network of European shell companies. I know exactly how he operates. Give me terminal access. I’m going to steal a bidder’s identity, hijack their funds, and buy my way into the front door."
👉 Commander Cross stared at her, terrified and in awe of the sheer audacity of her plan, as Olga logged into the global SWIFT network to commit the largest act of cyber-theft in human history.
For twenty-four hours, the underground Interpol bunker became Olga’s personal war room. Empty espresso cups piled up next to her keyboard as she navigated the darkest corners of the global financial grid.
She didn't just need money to buy her way into Victor Kaelen’s auction; she needed a bulletproof identity. She set her sights on the Volkov Syndicate, a ruthless Russian oligarch faction that Silas Thorne had foolishly dealt with before his demise. The Volkovs had just moved six billion dollars into a clean holding account in Zurich to prepare for the auction.
Using her mother's biometric logic and her own unparalleled forensic skills, Olga systematically dismantled the Volkov firewalls. She didn't steal the money—she simply rerouted the ownership metadata, transferring the digital title of the six billion dollars to a phantom alias: Countess Katerina Vance.
"The funds are secured," Olga announced, hitting the final keystroke. "I am officially registered as the proxy buyer for the Volkov Syndicate. Victor’s automated system just generated my boarding pass for the Orakis ferry."
Commander Cross stood behind her, shaking his head in disbelief. "If the Volkovs realize you hijacked their funds, they will send assassins to every corner of the globe to hunt you."
"Let them get in line," Olga said coldly.
She stood up, exchanging her comfortable tech clothes for her armor. She dressed in a stunning, razor-sharp white tuxedo tailored to perfection, her dark hair slicked back with aristocratic precision. She looked every inch the lethal billionaire proxy she was pretending to be.
Cross handed her a sleek, matte-black encrypted smartwatch. "This is your lifeline. It contains a localized EMP generator that can disable biometric locks within a ten-foot radius, and a direct comms link to me. I will have a ghost-hawk stealth chopper idling fifty miles off the coast of Orakis. If you secure your mother, signal me, and we will extract you. But Olga... once you step off that ferry, you are entirely on your own."
"I’ve been on my own my entire life, Commander," Olga replied, clasping the watch around her wrist.
Twelve hours later, Olga stepped off a luxury hydrofoil ferry onto the heavily fortified docks of Orakis Island. The Mediterranean sun was blinding, but the atmosphere on the island was suffocatingly tense. Massive, heavily armed mercenaries in tactical gear escorted the world’s elite criminals toward a sprawling, hyper-modern glass citadel perched on the cliffs.
Olga walked with absolute, unbreakable confidence. She approached the primary biometric security checkpoint. A towering mercenary held out a retinal scanner.
"Look into the lens, Countess," the guard grunted.
Olga didn't flinch. She leaned forward, allowing the laser to scan her eye. For two agonizing seconds, the machine processed her data against the hijacked Volkov profile. The light flashed green. Access granted.
She walked through the heavy steel doors and into the grand atrium of the citadel. It was a masterpiece of villainous luxury, filled with champagne, classical music, and the deadliest people on earth.
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Olga grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, her eyes scanning the room for exits, security blind spots, and server access points. She was ready to tear this fortress down from the inside.
👉 But as she turned toward the grand staircase, a chillingly familiar voice echoed directly over the citadel’s public address system: “Attention guests. We have a slight change of schedule. Will the woman pretending to be the Volkov proxy please report to the basement... before I execute her mother on live television.”
The classical music abruptly cut out. The elegant chatter of the world’s most dangerous elites died instantly. Hundreds of eyes turned toward Olga, standing frozen in her pristine white tuxedo at the base of the grand staircase.
On the massive digital screens lining the atrium, the video feed of Elena Rostova’s holding cell appeared. Standing directly behind the frail, gray-haired woman was Victor Kaelen—Principal Davies. He wore a flawless silver suit, his Viper signet ring gleaming under the harsh prison lights. In his hand, he held a suppressed pistol aimed directly at the back of Elena’s head.
“You really are your mother’s daughter, Olga,” Victor’s voice echoed through the speakers, dripping with patronizing amusement. “A brilliant forensic mind. Hacking the Volkov accounts was a masterful stroke. But did you honestly think I wouldn't recognize the exact same routing anomalies I taught Jack Vance to look for twenty years ago?”
Olga’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her face remained a mask of pure ice. She slowly placed her champagne glass onto a silver tray. The heavy mercenaries in the room unholstered their weapons, the red dots of their laser sights painting her white tuxedo.
“Bring her down to the holding sector,” Victor commanded. “Alive.”