CHAPTER 68: ROTHSCHILD PRIVATE VAULT

The black Maybach S-Class rolled through the immaculate streets of Geneva, its glossy body glinting beneath the late morning sun.

Nick drove with steady and professional hands. Mason was seated silently beside him, while Liam leaned back in the rear seat, gazing out at the passing scenery.

Though he tried to appear calm, his heart carried quite a bit of anticipation.

A bit? Wrong! A lot!

Where he was going to was the Rothschild Private Vault.

According to the information he got about the facility from Daniel, it was a place whispered about in very low voices in the uppermost tiers of finance as a fortress for the world’s greatest fortunes. To most, it was a rumor. To the rare few invited, it was reality.

Elite bankers called it the "vault for the vault owners."

It was not a branch office and it was no ordinary safe deposit room tucked into the basement of a commercial bank.

No, this was a standalone fortress. An underground chambers built beneath layers of reinforced concrete and steel.

It’s strictly invitation-only and its client list included dynasties, royalty, and individuals whose names moved nations.

No digital records were ever kept online; the vault’s inventories existed entirely offline, immune even to state-level cyberattacks.

Liam’s fingers brushed the cuff of his Brioni Privé suit, the platinum-threaded fabric shimmering faintly in the sunlight streaming through the tinted windows. The Vacheron Constantin "Geneva Sovereign" ticked gently on his wrist.

Though the vault was barely a five-minute drive from his hotel, it wasn’t a place one could approach casually. No one can simply walked to the Rothschild Private Vault.

They dare not.

They say the wealthy are eccentric but this wasn’t a place to try something like that.

Arrival was part of presentation. It was a performance of power.

Nick guided the Maybach down a quiet avenue, lined with discreet but stately buildings — law firms, private banks, diplomatic residences. The car slowed as they approached their destination.

"There, sir," Mason murmured.

Liam lifted his eyes and saw it.

The facility’s exterior was striking not for opulence, but for restraint.

A towering façade of pale stone and dark glass rose from the street, its architecture a blend of classical gravitas and modern elegance.

The columns flanking the entrance were carved with faint, abstract patterns that caught the light without revealing their meaning.

Above the doors, no sign bore the name of the institution. Only a subtle crest — a golden shield interlaced with the Swiss cross — hinted at the building’s identity.

Power, Liam realized, didn’t need to announce itself.

The Maybach rolled to a stop at the curb. Nick killed the engine. Mason stepped out first, circling swiftly to open Liam’s door.

"Sir," Mason said, his voice low but firm.

Liam stepped out. The crisp air touched his face as he stood before the building. For a moment, he let his gaze travel upward, taking in the subtle intimidation of the architecture. His fingers brushed his cufflink once more, an unconscious gesture of composure.

"Let’s go," He exhaled softly.

Together, they crossed the short flight of steps.

The massive double doors slid open soundlessly as they approached. Inside, a lobby unfolded — high-ceilinged, lined with dark marble, its polished surface reflecting the glow of recessed lighting.

The atmosphere was hushed, as though the air itself demanded silence.

A reception desk of black granite stood at the far end, manned by two attendants in tailored navy suits. They looked up at the trio’s approach, their expressions neutral, professional, but watchful.

"Bonjour, messieurs," one of them greeted politely in French-accented English. "May I assist you?"

Liam stepped forward, his movements unhurried, graceful. His voice was calm when he spoke.

"I’m here to access my safe deposit box."

The attendant gave a courteous nod. "Of course. May I have your credentials?"

Without hesitation, Liam reached into his inner pocket and produced the platinum card — the Geneva Crest — from the inventory.

He could just say his name but he understood that the card was better.

And just as expected, the moment the card touched the desk, the atmosphere shifted.

The attendant’s composure tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes flicked to the intertwined crests engraved into the platinum: the Rothschild insignia and the Swiss cross.

For a split second, he froze. Then he inclined his head deeply, a gesture bordering on deference.

"Of course, monsieur," the attendant said again, this time with a note of respect.

He picked up the card with both hands, almost ceremoniously, and scanned its engraved code against a secure reader.

The machine emitted a soft chime of verification.

His colleague straightened, his own expression subtly altered — no longer merely professional, but deferential.

"Welcome, Mr. Scott," the second attendant said, bowing slightly. "If you’ll follow me, we will escort you to your vault."

Mason and Nick fell followed behind Liam as the attendant led them past the reception desk and into a discreet hallway.

The deeper they walked, the heavier the atmosphere became. Security was layered into every step. Cameras tracked silently from above. Discreet guards stood at intervals, their suits concealing more than polite manners.

They passed through a biometric checkpoint, where the attendant presented Liam’s card once more. The heavy steel doors slid open with a muted hiss.

Beyond lay a wide corridor, its walls lined with reinforced steel and adorned with subtle patterns of gold.

The air grew cooler.

Finally, they arrived at a second checkpoint — a smaller chamber guarded by two men whose eyes assessed Liam in silence.

At another scan of the card, the guards stepped aside, pressing their palms to hidden panels.

The chamber doors parted.

Liam entered a vast underground hall.

Rows of vault doors stretched out like an endless grid, each marked only by a discreet number. The silence here was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the air system. The scent of steel and stone lingered faintly in the air, sterile and immutable.

"This way, monsieur," the attendant said softly, guiding him deeper.

They reached a section marked with subtle gilded trim — a reserved zone. Stopping before one of the vault doors, the attendant turned to Liam.

"Here is your safe deposit box," he said. His tone carried that same deference as before.

"Thank you," Liam inclined his head.

The attendant bowed slightly. "We will leave you to your privacy, monsieur. Should you require anything, simply press the bell."

With that, he and the other attendant stepped back. Mason and Nick silently remained a respectful distance behind.

Liam reached into his pocket.

The small, platinum key materialized in his hand as he retrieved silently from the inventory.

He took the key out of his pocket and studied it for a moment, then slid it into the lock.

It’s called a safe deposit box but it’s actually a private vault. I guess that’s why it’s called the vault of the vault owners.

The vault’s mechanism turned smoothly, almost too smoothly, and with a faint click, the door unlocked.

He pulled it open and the heavy vault door eased open with a soft hiss, revealing a chamber no larger than a walk-in closet.

The interior of the vault was not one single container, but sectioned into twelve narrow compartments, each shaped like a long, elegant lockbox built seamlessly into the steel walls.

Liam’s eyes swept the rows. There were no labels, no identifiers. But for reasons he couldn’t explain, his hand moved instinctively to the fourth compartment.

The brushed steel panel slid out smoothly when he pulled, revealing a velvet-lined interior.

Resting inside was a single object.

A sheet of paper.

A paper? Liam thought inwardly, his brows furrowing.

That was what it looked like at first glance, especially to someone as ignorant as Liam. A piece of paper. But it’s actual appearance is like an oversized antique certificate — heavy parchment with ornate borders, elaborate engravings, and faded calligraphic lettering, the kind of thing that resembled a cross between a diploma and a stock certificate, complete with embossed seals and faint rows where coupons might once have been clipped.

The contrast struck him hard. After all the mystique, all the reverence surrounding the vault, was his grand reveal nothing more than... paper?

Still, something about it drew him in. Also, he was aware that nothing from the system was ever ordinary.

Curiously, he reached inside and took out the paper.

The moment his fingers brushed the strange surface, a torrent of information slammed into his mind.

A few seconds later, Liam looked at the paper in his hand with his eyes wide open in shock.

Holy...!!!