London. Mayfair.
Victor Strand's estate wasn't just old money. It was the money. The house had hosted kings, spies, and more than one war criminal disguised as a philanthropist.
But tonight it hosted something worse:The Thirteen.
Twelve men and women in bespoke suits, polished watches, inherited cruelty. They sat in silence around the circular oak table, waiting for Victor to speak.
And standing behind him like a shadow carved from glass was Valeria Strand, his only child, poised, expressionless, wearing black silk and venom in her veins.
"You all know why we're here," Victor began, swirling his scotch lazily. "Our Zurich operation was compromised. Emil Hartmann is dead."
No one spoke. No one flinched. This wasn't new. In this room, human life was inventory.
Victor's voice grew colder. > "Damien Voss is not just a nuisance. He's an infection. His actions are inspiring fractures in the order. Unions revolting in Berlin. Crypto leaks in Singapore. Even the Saudis are sniffing blood in the water."
Finally, one of them spoke — Lord Pembroke, ancient and skeletal, voice like dry paper.
"Then cut the infection out."
Victor smiled thinly. "That's why the Wolves were deployed."
Pembroke arched one paper-thin brow. "Yet Voss still breathes."
And that was when Valeria moved.
"Because you let him," she said, calm as church glass. "All of you."
Heads turned. For the first time in years, someone had spoken against the council.
"Excuse me?" Lord Pembroke croaked.
Valeria stepped forward, black heels silent on the marble floor. > "You sit here, old, soft, mistaking your grandfather's wars for the world we live in now."
Victor's eyes flickered with subtle warning. "Valeria—"
"No, Father," she said, ice behind every syllable. "They need to hear it."
The room tensed. No one interrupted the elder Strand. Not in fifty years.
"Voss isn't just killing names on a list," Valeria continued. "He's unraveling the faith people have in this system. The Wolves, your banks, your legal screens—he's making them visible. And worse—he's making the middle class notice."
A ripple of discomfort moved through the council. The middle class noticing meant instability. Instability meant revolutions. Not in the streets — in the stock markets.In capital itself.
"So," Valeria said with a quiet, cutting smile. "Either we evolve, or we die fat and confused like every empire before us."
Silence.
Finally, Victor spoke, smooth as silk covering a blade.
"And your plan, dear?"
Valeria reached into her tailored jacket, withdrawing a data drive. She placed it on the polished wood between them like a knife at a duel.
"I've been speaking to elements within Damien's rebel networks."
Victor's smile faltered for the first time. "You've what?"
"Not to negotiate," Valeria said. "To infiltrate."
Her eyes locked on her father's, unblinking. > "I have a name. One of Voss's lieutenants. I've been grooming him as an asset."
"Who?" Victor's voice was low now, dangerous.
Valeria's lips parted, a slow, deliberate move.
"Asher."
Victor went still.
"Asher is compromised?"
"No," Valeria whispered. "Asher is mine."
The room rippled. Pembroke's dead eyes finally blinked. A low chuckle from the Indian telecom magnate at the far end. The Swiss banker adjusted his cufflinks nervously.
"With Asher," Valeria continued, stepping closer to the center of power, "we don't just kill Voss. We humiliate him. Publicly. Broadcast the betrayal live. Turn the symbol of his rebellion into a punchline. You don't kill a martyr. You discredit him."
Victor Strand sat in his chair like an old lion smelling his kingdom slipping away.
"And you did all this without my approval."
"Because you're not the future," Valeria said softly. "I am."
Later, in the wine cellar, Victor sat alone in the dark, rolling the ancient glass of a Roman vintage between his fingers.
Behind him, footsteps.
Valeria. Again.
"You played your hand well tonight," Victor murmured. "The council loves sharp teeth."
Valeria said nothing.
Victor's old hands curled slightly.
"But you forgot one thing, dear."
"And what's that?" she asked.
Victor turned, eyes burning cold and patient.
"The Wolves don't answer to you. They answer to me."
"Not anymore," Valeria said. And she slid a folded slip of parchment across the marble counter.
Victor opened it.
One word.One symbol.A wolf's paw. Stamped in red.
"The Wolves have already been bought," she whispered. "By me."
Across the channel, on the black boat, Damien felt the betrayal before he heard it.
Koslov handed him a satellite phone.A secure channel opened.A familiar voice filtered through the static.
"Hello, Damien," Valeria Strand purred.
"You," Damien growled. "I should've known."
"Oh, you did. Somewhere deep down. And that's why this is going to be fun."
Her voice was velvet knives.
"Asher belongs to me now."
Damien's knuckles went white around the grip of his pistol.
Koslov's eyes flickered. Mara stiffened. Asher said nothing.
"London's waiting," Valeria whispered sweetly. "Come see how it ends."