Chapter 7 - The Inheritance of FireWe didn't take Grant to a police station. Cops could be bought, judges could be bribed, and high-priced defense attorneys could find loopholes in corporate fraud cases. In the world of the New York harbor syndicates, justice was handled in the shadows.
We brought Grant back to the Westchester estate, dragging him down the long flight of stairs into the basement—the very room where he had spent years teaching me how powerless I was supposed to feel. The air down here was cold, smelling of damp concrete and old iron. A single overhead bulb cast a harsh, flickering yellow light over the concrete floor.
Grant was shoved hard into an old wooden chair in the center of the room. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead as he looked up at the reinforced iron door and the heavy deadbolts lining the frame.
"No," Grant choked out, his eyes darting frantically toward the dark corners of the room. "No, not down here. Evelyn, tell him to get me out of here. You know what this room is!"
I stepped into the light, standing directly in front of him. For the first time in my life, I looked down at my brother and felt no fear—only a profound, liberating emptiness.
"Yes, Grant," I said softly, my voice echoing off the stone walls. "I know exactly what this room is. You designed it. You locked the door from the outside when I was fourteen because I spilled ink on your ledger. You made me count the ceiling tiles until my voice went hoarse."
"Evelyn, please," Grant whimpered, his corporate arrogance completely evaporated, leaving only a pathetic, trembling coward. "We're family. We share blood."
"We share a last name," Roman corrected, stepping out of the shadows and placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. "But she’s taking mine now."
May you like
Roman pulled a heavy brass key from his pocket—the exact duplicate of the basement deadbolt key Grant had used to imprison me for years—and tossed it onto the concrete floor right at Grant’s feet.
"You're going to sit in this room, Grant, and wait for the federal marshals to collect you," Roman said coldly. "Every offshore account has been seized. Every political ally has cut ties. By morning, you won't even own the clothes on your back."
