13

The next morning, Leila opened her eyes and didn’t recognize the room. The only familiar object was Wolfie, a massive fluffy dog sprawled across the other half of the enormous four-poster bed. Sunlight streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows draped in velvet curtains the color of ripe plums, casting a warm glow over the polished wood floors. The bed itself was a masterpiece—mahogany, carved with an intricate pattern that hinted at old-world craftsmanship, but its newness was unmistakable. The room screamed wealth, from the silk sheets to the high thread-count linens that practically melted against her skin.

She sat up, the plush duvet sliding off her shoulders, and let her gaze wander. The room was vast, larger than most people’s houses. A marble fireplace, cold now but still imposing, stood across from her, its mantel adorned with sleek sculptures and a single, rather fine piece of modern art. Above the fireplace, a flat-screen TV that could’ve easily doubled as a movie theater loomed, subtly blending with the chalet-flavored decor.

On one side of the room, there was a seating area, complete with leather armchairs so deep they looked like they could swallow a person, and a glass coffee table with the edges softly beveled, gleaming like crystal in the morning light. A fur rug lay in front of the fireplace—probably real fur, but Leila didn’t want to think too hard about that.

The walls were a combination of walnut paneling and soft, cream wallpaper with gold accents that managed to feel both regal and modern at the same time. The ceiling was high, supported by thick beams that looked rustic but polished, giving the space a feeling of grandeur but without being ridiculous.

To her left, there was a door, half open, leading to what looked like an ensuite bathroom. Even from where she was, Leila could see marble floors, glistening like a palace, and the edge of a bathtub that could probably hold three people comfortably. Tom’s new employer didn’t hold back when it came to luxury. She wasn’t sure if the place was rented or owned by the Grossman Center, but it had the feel of something brand new, as if no one had ever really lived here before. Sterile, in a way, like a showpiece. Now she remembered seeing it the first day she came here, and its grand, newly built vibe was strikingly off from the rest of the surrounding chalets.

Leila took a deep breath, the air faintly scented with the woodsy smell of whatever expensive air freshener they were using in the vents. Wolfie stretched beside her, his paws barely making a dent in the plush bedding, and she let her hand rest on his fur. Safe, at least for now. The events of the night before came rushing back, and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of relief knowing Tom had insisted they leave Christina’s chalet.

Tom. Where was he?

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet sinking into the softness of a Persian rug as she stood. As she padded across the room, her eyes fell on a sleek door in the corner. The rest of the mansion must have been behind that door. But she didn’t have time to look what was behind it. There was a quick note from Tom advising her to visit local library. She was interested in the book written by somebody called Eduard Yellen. Leila gave the note a quick nod and opened the fridge where the can of expensive dog food was the only thing edible. She emptied the can into the dog’s bowl, and waited for Wolfie to slowly consume it with grace and dignity that only husky dogs could pull. Then she nicely asked Wolfie to behave and not disembowel the expensive silk cushions out of sheer naughtiness. Wolfie wagged her tail. She didn’t mind spending the rest of the day on that irresistibly comfy bed. The library was easy to find, as it was marked on the tourist map, and Leila settled in the reading room without making herself visible.

She combed through the thick pages of the old magazine, its yellowed corners curling like ancient relics in her hands. Spending enough time doing that not to raise any suspicion, she went straight to the History shelf and picked up the book from the space marked in Tom’s note. The library was as dusty as the history it held—rows of forgotten volumes, tables long scratched with age, and flickering daylight lamps that hummed like old bees. It wasn’t exactly the picture of high-tech conspiracy, but Leila knew better. Secrets, she had learned, rarely wore a clean face.

She glanced up from the magazine, scanning the room. The reading room seemed innocuous at first glance, but something about the locked door at the far end kept gnawing at her. A door marked “No unauthorized persons allowed” wasn’t exactly subtle. It reeked of the kind of secrecy that could turn a quiet library into a fortress for something far more sinister than old books.

Leila leaned back in her chair, letting her gaze drift to the windows. The same thought had circled her mind since she’d arrived. This wasn’t just a fringe group of aristocrats playing at ancient power. It was something bigger. Older. And she was getting closer.

She turned back to the book, trying to focus. The estate she was reading about belonged to a Finnish industrialist, but it was the photo that caught her attention. The house next to the one where they found the dead man—it was Christina’s chalet. Not new, as she’d always thought. It had been there for ages, patched up and restored, but still standing. The same house the cult was after.

Her fingers traced the outline of the house in the photograph, the cold realization settling over her like a shadow. Whatever was going on, it was tied to this place—this house, her family. And if her aunt’s chalet was as old as the conspiracy, then maybe the artifact they were hunting wasn’t just a legend. Maybe it was real. Just as she was getting there, she realized that the rest of the information on that estate was in volume two.

But before she could dwell on that, the door to the mysterious room creaked open, breaking the silence of the library. A woman in a black suit stepped out, her movements brisk and purposeful, her face as impassive as the stone men outside. Leila squinted, trying to get a better look, but the woman was gone in seconds, crossing the reading room and exchanging a few clipped words with the librarian before disappearing out the front door.

Leila’s pulse quickened. The name on the woman’s nametag hadn’t gone unnoticed—Maianne Grossman. The same Mrs Grossman tied to the Third Eye Society, the so-called Rulers. The one who had connections with the shadowy group Leila was trying to piece together.

She stood up, leaving the magazine behind and making her way toward the librarian’s desk. She knew she had to push deeper. If this cult was connected to centuries of political manipulation in Europe, then they weren’t just playing a game of power. They were engineering history.

“Excuse me,” Leila said, sliding a library order form across the desk. “Can I see this book?”

The librarian, a modest woman with colorless hair tied back in a ponytail, gave her a quick glance before reaching for the form. “Furniture of the Masters of Germany and Austria, huh? Researching antiques?”

Leila forced a smile. “Something like that.”

The librarian’s fingers tapped along the counter as she flipped through an old catalog. “We should have that in the archive. Let me check.” She disappeared behind a curtain, leaving Leila to stew in the heavy silence of the room.

Leila’s mind raced. The cult, the Third Eye Society, the connections between her family and the European elite—this was all starting to click. Centuries-old organizations didn’t survive by accident. They thrived on control, on secrets, on pulling the strings behind the scenes. The AI virus, the artifact, the plan to topple governments—it all fit together like a puzzle. A puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her out of her thoughts. It was a message from Tom: Get out of there. Something’s up.

Leila glanced toward the curtained door where the librarian had vanished. She was taking too long. And Marianne Grossman—what had she been doing here? It was a public library, but somehow, Leila doubted she was there to borrow books.

Leila didn’t know why she asked about the book—maybe it was force of habit. A good investigator never lets the little things slide, and right now, every little thing matters. She kept wondering why the librarian gave her a strange look as if she’d just asked for a signed first edition of Chaucer.

“Sadly, you can’t borrow that particular book,” the librarian said emerging from the private room, her tone dark as a rainy alley. “We don’t have that book anymore. It was stolen.”

Leila raised an eyebrow. Stolen? From this dusty old tomb of forgotten literature? Something didn’t smell right, and it wasn’t the mildew creeping off the shelves.

“How could it be stolen?” Leila asked, trying to sound like she hadn’t just stumbled onto a clue that might blow the case wide open.

The librarian folded her arms across her chest, her lips tightening into a line sharp enough to cut paper. “People are like that, nothing’s sacred to them. Someone just took it right out of the reading room.”

Leila gave a sympathetic nod, but inside, her mind was racing. Who would steal a book from this backwater library? And why? She’d have to look into that, but not here, not now.

She pushed open the heavy door, only to have someone practically bowl her over. A foot landed squarely on her toes.

“Hey!” she snapped, shaking off the annoyance—until she looked up and saw who it was.

“Linda? What the hell are you doing here?”

Linda Stern, the toughest reporter this side of the Atlantic, stood there with her trademark grin. A born snooper with a nose for scandal and a stomach for whiskey, Linda was always in the middle of something messy. They’d run into each other before, mostly at the scene of the latest disaster or scandalous affair. She was the type who’d order a double at the bar while the place was burning down. And somehow, she’d still get the scoop.

Linda’s grin widened. “Leila, fancy seeing you here. What’s a chic girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

Leila rolled her eyes. “I could ask you the same question. You don’t look like the average library goer.”

“C’mon, let’s grab some coffee,” Linda said, steering Leila away from the library like she had all the time in the world. “I’m starving.”

Two blocks later, they were sitting at a dingy café. Linda ordered the biggest sandwich on the menu, a bun dripping with Bavarian cream, and a black coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Leila, more restrained, went for half a sandwich and a latte, still trying to shake off the feeling that the walls were closing in on her.

Once the food arrived, Linda leaned in. “So, Leila, what’ve you gotten yourself into this time? And don’t give me that innocent act. You’re always up to your neck in something.”

Leila smirked, but kept her cards close to her chest. “You first. What’s your interest in that sad excuse for a library?”

Linda took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “The paper’s got me chasing dead-end stories. And I mean dead. No one gives a damn about celebrity gossip anymore. Weddings, divorces, the same old tired stuff. I’m on the accident beat now—exciting, huh? We got a tip about a break-in at the library, so I figured I’d take a look.”

Leila’s interest piqued. “A break-in?”

Linda nodded. “Yeah, but here’s the kicker—no police were called. Just a librarian freaking out over some stolen books and a bunch of sketchy people hanging around after hours.”

Leila tapped her fingers on the table, her mind racing. “Did they mention who these ‘sketchy people’ were?”

Linda leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s the thing—word is Mrs. Grossman’s been letting them in. You know, the wife of that walking disaster, Mikhail Grossman. They say she’s involved with some secret society.”

Leila’s heart skipped a beat. Mrs. Grossman? The same woman who’d been at the party with her smooth, ice-queen act? Now it made sense. The cult, the strange meetings at the library. The book wasn’t just some antique—this was part of something bigger, something old.

Leila forced a casual tone. “Yeah, I’ve heard about that. It’s called ‘The Third Eye,’ right?”

Linda’s sandwich paused mid-air. “You know about that?”

Leila nodded, keeping her cool. “They’re more than just a book club, Linda. They’ve been around for centuries, pulling strings behind the scenes. Politics, banking, you name it. I’ve been digging into them, and trust me, what they’re after isn’t just some dusty old relic. They’re after power—real power. They’ve got a plan to crash every major institution in Europe in one night. A virus.”

Linda whistled low. “You’re not messing around, are you? And here I thought I was just chasing some local flavor.”

“This isn’t just a local story,” Leila said, leaning forward. “This is a centuries-old conspiracy. The Third Eye’s been manipulating European politics for ages, all in the name of some twisted notion of a ‘rightful emperor.’ They want to take down every democracy in Europe and replace them with their handpicked rulers.”

Linda put down her sandwich, finally realizing the gravity of the situation. “Jesus, Leila. This is… nasty.”

“It’s nastier than nasty,” Leila replied. “And the stolen book? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. They’re after an artifact that’s tied to their power grab. I need you to help me dig into it, Linda. See what you can find out about Mrs. Grossman and her friends.”

Linda grinned, the thrill of the chase lighting up her eyes. “You’ve got it, kid. I’ll get to the bottom of this. But don’t think I’m doing it for free. I want the story when it breaks. Will you go for it?”

Leila smiled. ‘Deal. But be careful, Linda. These people don’t play by the rules.”

Linda waved her off. “Please, I’ve dealt with worse than some aristocratic nutjobs. What’s the plan?”

“Find Mrs. Grossman. Use the code ‘W’—it stands for ‘Weinrich.’ But wear something black. You don’t want to stand out.”

Linda looked down at her sneakers and shrugged. “Not sure I’ve got a black dress lying around, but I’ll figure something out. And you?”

“I’ve got a few leads to chase,” Leila said, standing up to leave. “Just remember—if things get dicey, call me. And whatever you do, don’t think they are stupid.”

Linda grinned, her confidence unwavering. “Stupid? Hell, I’m counting on them.”

As Leila walked out of the café and into the cold street, she felt being watched. The icy cold eyes of Marianna Grossman casually followed Leila from the library window. The cult wasn’t just a footnote in history—it was still here, still alive and kicking, pursuing its bizarre goals. And if she wasn’t careful, she’d end up tangled in their web just like a newborn fly. But she wasn’t going to let that happen. Not without a fight.