Chapter 5 - THE MIDNIGHT VISITORThe snow had turned into a blizzard by nightfall, howling around the stone columns of my mother’s estate like a pack of starving wolves. Inside, the house was warm, smelling faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish.
I sat in the dim study, a glass of amber scotch untouched on the desk before me, watching the security monitors. At exactly 11:55 PM, a battered black van bumped down the long, snow-drifted driveway, its headlights cutting jagged beams through the whiteout.
Two of my men stepped out into the blizzard, hauling a struggling, hooded figure from the back of the van. Arthur Vandermark. Patriarch of high society, pillar of the charity boards, and a coward when stripped of his bodyguards and his bank accounts. They dragged him up the stone steps and threw him onto the Persian rug in my foyer, slamming the heavy oak doors shut behind them.
I walked out of the study, my boots making no sound on the runner. I stood over him as my men pulled the burlap hood off his head.
Arthur gasped for air, his face pale, his expensive cashmere coat ruined by slush and dirt. He looked up at me with terrified, bloodshot eyes.
"Nicholas... please," he choked out, crawling backward until his shoulders hit the base of the grand staircase. "We can make a deal. Half my holdings—hell, take the entire portfolio! Don't do this. We're practically family—"
"Family," I repeated the word, tasting the bitter irony on my tongue. "You killed my brother over ledger entries, Arthur. You planted your daughter in my house to finish the job if my mother or I ever got too close to the truth. And last night, your precious daughter tried to murder an innocent nurse in cold blood just because she remembered a face."
Arthur’s eyes widened. "Celeste... she was just protecting our interests—"
"She’s in the guest suite upstairs," I cut him off smoothly. "Locked in. Waiting for the police. Not the city cops—they belong to you. Federal marshals. They're picking her up at dawn on federal charges of corporate espionage, embezzlement, and accessory to murder. By sunrise, the Vandermark name won't even be good enough to buy a cup of coffee in this city."
Arthur lunged forward, grabbing the hem of my trousers. "You can't do this! You'll ruin us! Society will tear you apart!"
"Society doesn't care about men who lose," I said, gently pulling my leg away from his grip. "They only bow to the man who owns the board."
May you like
I signaled to my men. "Take him to the basement. Lock him in the holding cell next to the old wine racks. Let him spend the night thinking about what it feels like to lose everything."
As they hauled him away, screaming curses into the dark, I turned and walked slowly up the grand staircase toward my mother’s room.
