All he needs, p.1
All He Needs, page 1
ALL HE NEEDS
(A Vivian Fox Suspense Thriller —Book 4)
Ella Swift
Ella Swift
Ella Swift is author of the VIVIAN FOX suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); PEYTON RISK mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the new COOPER TRACE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting).
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Ella loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit ellaswiftauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2024 by Ella Swift. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BOOKS BY ELLA SWIFT
PEYTON RISK MYSTERY SERIES
WHAT’S HIS (Book #1)
WHAT’S LEFT (Book #2)
WHAT’S WISHED (Book #3)
WHAT’S GONE (Book #4)
WHAT’S MINE (Book #5)
COOPER TRACE MYSTERY SERIES
SHATTERED MIND (Book #1)
SHATTERED LIFE (Book #2)
SHATTERED HOPE (Book #3)
SHATTERED DREAM (Book #4)
SHATTERED FATE (Book #5)
VIVIAN FOX MYSTERY SERIES
ALL HE TAKES (Book #1)
ALL HE HIDES (Book #2)
ALL HE COVETS (Book #3)
ALL HE NEEDS (Book #4)
ALL HE DESTROYS (Book #5)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
PROLOGUE
Elena Rivera stood alone in her office, the rest of the building silent around her. She had the largest office in the building, a space dedicated to the kinds of art and treasures most people could only dream of. The only light came from a small desk lamp in the center of the room, where she held court on the phone and the computer while she appraised some of the most unique paintings and artifacts known to man.
Elena's long black hair fell over her shoulders, a contrast against the pale hue of her blouse. She was motionless except for the slow rise and fall of her chest, her gaze locked on the object encased before her. It was a jade figurine of ancient origin, its surface alive with the serpentine twirls of dragons and clouds intricately carved into its cool, green skin. She’d been obsessed with this piece for a while now; she’d had it in her office for a week, locked in a case as she did her best to determine its worth. She’d done this for the last few days—simply staring at it in awe after everyone else had left the building. It was more than appreciating beauty; it was taking in something that had been crafted by skilled hands from a genius mind centuries ago.
She’d always had an affinity for the exotic and the valuable, a passion that had shaped her career as a freelance art consultant. This piece, however, seemed to pull at her very soul, whispering secrets and stories from a land wrapped in mystery and time.
As she stepped forward, her footsteps echoed softly upon the polished floor. It was a sound that should've been swallowed by the expanse of the space, but instead it reverberated back to her, a reminder that she was the only one left in the building. Her office, and the rest of the building she supposed, felt different at night—more alive, as if the artifacts themselves were breathing, their histories seeping out to fill the darkness.
The dim lighting played tricks on her eyes, casting shadows that morphed and moved with an almost sentient quality. They stretched across the shelves, where other priceless relics sat, each with their own tale of discovery and danger. In this dim glow, the jade figurine seemed even more captivating, its edges softened, turning it ethereal. It was said to be the work of a master carver, a treasure once held in the grip of royalty, passed down through bloodlines and battles until it had landed here, in the quiet heart of her prestigious world. And in the quiet and brooding light, she could almost imagine it coming to life.
The gentle hum of the office building's nocturnal quiet had long since settled into a silence as thick as the darkness outside. It was why, she supposed, she was able to hear a soft sound from right outside her door. Footsteps, perhaps?
She wondered who it might be and she was instantly upset that they were ruining her private time with this fascinating piece. Why would someone be here? The cleaning crew had left hours ago, and the security system would've signaled an entry.
Her eyes, which had been drinking in the verdant hues of the jade figurine, now turned sharply toward the doorway. There, emerging from the inky shadows of the hallway like a specter summoned from the past, stood a figure. A man, and he was unfamiliar. She’d never seen his gaunt face, dark eyes, and thin smile.
Elena’s heart began to pound, each beat echoing the rhythmic ticking of an ancient clock that rested on a shelf nearby—an artifact from centuries ago, rumored to have once sat in Versailles.
The figure moved with purpose, advancing slowly into the doorway. By doing so, he blocked the only path that led to the safety of the corridor outside her office. Elena's breath hitched, her mind racing through scenarios and motives, but yielding no solace. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to cry out, but she was alone—terribly alone—with this encroaching threat.
“Who are you?” she demanded, trying not to sound terrified. “And what are you doing here?”
The man did not answer. He took another step into her office, the thin smile on his face widening.
Driven by a primal instinct, Elena backed away until her hips met the edge of her desk. Her fingers, usually so steady and sure while evaluating the finest details of art, now fumbled across the cold surface of her workspace, seeking something, anything, that could serve as a line of defense. They found their mark—a sleek, silver pen, unassuming in its utility but now a meager weapon in her desperate grasp.
With the pen clenched firmly in her hand, she squared her shoulders. "Who are you?" she asked again. She also became aware of her cell phone, sitting on the edge of her desk. On the other side, out of her reach. So calling for help if she should need it was almost out of the question.
Still, the intruder said nothing. He took another step into the office, now just six or seven feet away from her. His advance was steady, an encroaching shadow that seemed to devour the scant light in the office. Now that he was closer, Elena’s eyes locked onto the glint of metal clutched in his hand—a knife with intentions as sharp as its blade.
Panic churned within her, but it settled quickly into a cold, hard resolve. Her only avenue of escape was blocked off. She was trapped in her office and, suddenly, the jade figurine she’d been so enamored over felt like a trap—like something that had led to this dangerous moment.
The air between them thickened with tension, an invisible field charged with the electricity of impending violence. Elena's fingers tightened around the pen, its smooth surface warm from her grip. It now seemed sadder than ever in the presence of the knife in the man's hand. She watched his every micro-movement, calculating, waiting for the split second she might be able to turn the tide, to somehow skirt around the desk and make her way out of the office, just out of his reach.
Before she could entertain such thoughts, the figure launched forward, the knife arcing through the air with lethal precision. Elena acted instinctively; her arm swung in a wide arc, the pen an extension of her will to survive. But the figure was able to block her blow with his arm, barely moving at all.
He slapped her hard across the face, and though she stumbled back, she would be damned if she’d go out so easily. She was going to fight. She was not going to let this maniacal stranger get the best of her.
She opened her mouth and screamed, the sound coming from deep in her lungs. “Help! Someone help! I—”
He lunged at her again, and this time, the knife nicked her shoulder. Enraged and fearing for her life, Elena did her best to attack. She locked herself in a struggle with the man, trying to remain aware of the position of his blade at all times. She was pushed back into a shelf behind her. As a result, centuries-old vases fell to the ground and shattered, their fragments scattering across the floor. Sculptures toppled and thudded to the ground.
He was just too strong. And she realized, as another precious piece of history fell to the floor from the shelf behind her, that this was very likely how she was going to die.
Through the haze of exertion and fear, Elena felt an icy fire pierce her chest and heard the odd pop of her breastbone. The blade slid into her flesh with sickening ease. Her breath hitched, a silent scream trapped in her throat as shockwaves of agony radiated outward from the wound. She stumbled backward, each movement amplifying the pain that now seemed to envelop every single sense and nerve within her body.
Her legs collided with the hard edge of her desk, the collision sending papers fluttering to the floor like wounded birds in a storm. Grasping for support, her hands, slick with sweat and desperation, found no purchase. Elena's knees buckled and she hit the floor.
Her assailant, a shadow given form and malice, paused. For a moment, Elena saw him through the dim light, his features blanketed in darkness yet clear enough to see. Then he retreated, his presence dissolving into the shadows as if he were nothing more than a figment of the night.
Lying there as the cold floor leeched the warmth from her body, Elena's gaze wandered. It was then that she saw the jade figurine, once perched so proudly within its glass case, now lying beside her. The artifact had survived the brawl, its intricate carvings mocking her with their untouched beauty. The figure seemed to stare at her as if encouraging Elena to get to her feet.
As the edges of her vision began to blur and the world receded into a tunnel of darkness, Elena's thoughts drifted. They coursed through memories of art-filled rooms and whispered deals, the thrill of auctions and the satisfaction of preserving history. All her years of dedication to the beauty created by others, only to be undone by a single act of ugliness.
As the last few breaths passed from her body, Elena's eyes remained on the jade figurine. And with that final, haunting image imprinted upon her fading consciousness, Elena Rivera died, surrounded by several items and relics that she had centered her life around.
CHAPTER ONE
Vivian's breath came in shallow bursts, fogging the cool metal of the lock pick set she tightly gripped in her hands. The alleyway behind her was silent except for the distant echoes of Brussels in the morning. She’d only visited the city once before during her thieving years and it had been a brief encounter. This visit would be even briefer, as her plan was to get in, get what she needed, and get out.
She crouched before the old, wooden door, encased in a brick wall. The alley wasn’t exactly hidden from view from the street, but it was shrouded in shadows—a place no one would ever visit unless they had a very specific reason for doing so. The alley and the door itself would have been easily overlooked by any passerby. Despite the isolation, the tension in her fingers mirrored the feeling knotting her stomach as she worked with a deft precision born from years of skirting the law.
"Come on," she whispered to herself, coaxing the stubborn lock. It was an old-fashioned tumbler design, tricky but not beyond her capabilities. Vivian could feel the tell-tale click just out of reach, the tiny metal pins inside resisting her. Her jaw set in irritation as she felt the seconds slip by; each second lost could mean the difference between reuniting with Olivia or losing her again. And she got the feeling that if she lost her again, that would be it. No more chances.
The lock finally yielded with a muted snick, and Vivian paused, collecting herself. Pushing open the door, she stepped into a darkened room. There was a single light bulb hanging from a frayed wire in the ceiling, but it was turned off. She tried the light switch to the right of the doorway, but the light did not respond. She assumed this forgotten space hadn’t had electricity running to it for quite some time.
She stood still for a heartbeat, allowing her eyes to adjust to the scant light from the opened door behind her. She then closed the door and took out the small flashlight—the same one she sometimes used during her work as an INTERPOL agent. She scanned the room slowly, her mind racing, listing details and questions to be asked.
This had been Olivia's base, a hub from which she conducted her affairs with the same careful planning that Vivian herself had once employed. It was here, amid the clutter of a criminal's lair, that Vivian hoped to find answers—or at the very least, a sign of her sister's presence. Her own investigations, driven by a mix of guilt and familial obligation, had led her to this hidden room. Every lead, every hushed conversation, and every scrap of information had funneled down to this singular point in time. Most of it had come through the help of a man named Nils.
She did not know Nils personally, did not even know his last name, or for that matter, if Nils was actually his real name. All she knew was that he was a retired INTERPOL agent that had secretly been sent to her by Director Garnett as a means to help her find her sister. Nils himself had offered no details about his own past which, she supposed, was smart for a man with his former job. All she knew for sure was that he was very diligent about his work and that he had, on occasion, a very dry and British sort of humor.
As she looked around the space, one of the first bits of information Nils had ever given her whispered through her head like a rogue wind: "Olivia is no longer Olivia. She goes by Rose Waters now…she does some freelance research work, mostly for security firms. Undercover investigations, background checks... the sort that requires a keen eye and anonymity.”
She wondered if those jobs had been legitimate or just a cover for her criminal activities. She had so many questions, and it hurt even more to know that her sister didn’t want to see her—to discuss the skewed paths that had led her down such a strange and unpredictable road.
But Vivian had decided that she was done playing the passive role in this twisted reunion. She would drag Olivia back, if she had to, away from the shadows that had already engulfed her and her father.
Stepping further into the room, Vivian used her flashlight to scan the cramped quarters. But there was nothing there. The place had been emptied out; from the absence of dust and cobwebs, she imagined it had been very recent. All the same, the air carried a musty scent, a blend of old leather and the metallic tang of keys long unused.
She supposed the space had been meant as a studio of some kind in the past, and Vivian saw that the room wasn’t totally empty. In the far corner, there was a Grecian vase adorned with shapes and patterns. It looked deceptively authentic, but Vivian could tell simply by the way her flashlight beam reflected off it that it was a fake.
The sight was a mirror to Vivian's own past—a tableau of crimes she knew all too well. Her heart constricted with the familiar ache of disappointment, but beneath it stirred sisterly protection. Olivia, once the beacon of innocence in their family, had slipped into the same darkness that Vivian had fought so hard to escape.
Vivian sucked in a breath, battling the swell of emotions that clashed within her—a tempest of sorrow, regret, and a relentless urge to save her sister from this life. She could almost hear Olivia's youthful laughter, echoing from a time untouched by their father's tainted legacy, a reminder of what they both had lost.
She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself a moment of grief. Vivian remembered the thrill of the heist, the creativity in finding new ways to dodge the law and security systems. It was a life she had excelled in, yet she had forcefully been pulled from it thanks to the deal she’d made with Garnett: her freedom for a career with INTERPOL. And now it seemed that Olivia was caught in the very web Vivian had sought to dismantle.
Vivian supposed that if she ever wanted to truly reunite with Olivia again and not have her walk away like last time, she needed to understand the depths of Olivia's descent—to uncover the reasons behind her sister's transition to a life of crime after having railed against it for so long and for turning away from her family when they’d succumbed to the same sins. It had been nearly two weeks since Olivia had walked away from Vivian as she confronted her in Geneva. But the harsh sting of her sister’s rejection made it feel as if it had happened just yesterday.
