Chapter 2 - The Inheritance of Shadows
"That's impossible," I stammered, backing away until the back of my knees hit the coffee table. "Carl was weak. He couldn't even lift a glass of water by himself during our last week together. He shook when we played Scrabble. How could he be... a syndicate boss?"
Marcus pulled a heavy leather-bound portfolio from his briefcase and tossed it onto the table. It landed with a dull, heavy thud.
"Cancer humbles everyone, Oanh. It ate away his lungs, his muscles, his strength. But it didn't touch his mind, and it certainly didn't erase his legal standing," Marcus said, walking closer. "When a man like Carl Vance marries without a prenuptial agreement, everything goes to his surviving spouse. Every offshore account, every commercial real estate holding in the downtown district, every shell corporation, and every heavy-duty asset tied to his name. You are a multi-millionaire, Oanh. But congratulations—you're also the new primary target for every ruthless underboss who has been waiting for Carl to breathe his last."
I stared at the portfolio, my mind spinning back to the days we spent together. The quiet afternoons playing board games. The way he smiled when I brought him chicken soup. The fragile, broken man who looked at me with what I foolishly believed was genuine, pure affection.
“I'd like to die knowing I'm not alone,” he had said.
It wasn't loneliness. It was a setup. He needed a legal spouse with a clean background—someone untraceable, someone the authorities would never suspect—to inherit the keys to his criminal kingdom so it wouldn't be seized by the federal government.
"I don't want it," I whispered fiercely, standing up and shaking my head. "I don't want his money. I don't want his empire. Go back to whoever sent you, tell them I'm annulling the marriage, I'm renouncing everything!"
Marcus let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Annulling it? On what grounds? You consented freely. You signed the marriage certificate in front of a licensed, registered priest. And as for renouncing it—do you really think Carl's lieutenants, the men who run the drug routes and the financial laundering rings, care about your moral objections? To them, you are either the new master who controls the vault codes, or you are the loose end that needs to be tied off permanently."
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Before I could answer, a loud, violent crash shattered the front window of my apartment. Glass rained across the floor as a heavy brick wrapped in a black cloth landed squarely in the center of the room. Tied to it was a note written in jagged, blood-red ink:
“WHERE IS THE BLACK LEDGER, MRS. VANCE? YOU HAVE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.”
