Chapter 9
Peter Sloan came voluntarily.
That surprised me.
He was sixty-eight now.
Retired to Cape Cod.
He walked into the estate with no guards and placed an old black envelope on my desk.
Inside was a photograph.
My father.
Bianca.
Enzo.
Marcus.
Peter.
The signet ring on the table between them.
Taken three weeks before Father died.
I stared.
“So he knew about the council?”
Peter nodded.
My anger shifted.
“Then Bianca was telling the truth.”
“Partly.”
Of course.
Peter explained.
My father feared I would centralize too aggressively.
He wanted senior advisers around me.
Advisers.
Not rulers.
Not veto power.
Not a secret faction.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He planned to.”
Then he died.
Again.
Dead men leaving unfinished structures for living people to weaponize.
“What did Bianca change?”
“The authority.”
Peter looked ashamed.
“Your father wanted three rotating advisers.”
Bianca and Enzo wanted permanent family seats able to block major decisions.
Different.
Bigger.
“Did Father give her the ring?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Enzo took it from his room after he died.”
There.
Theft.
Not inheritance.
The entire legitimacy narrative was built around a stolen object and a partial truth.
I looked at Peter.
“Did you know about Evelyn?”
“After the wedding.”
“How long after?”
“Two weeks.”
My hands tightened.
“And you said nothing.”
He lowered his eyes.
“Bianca told us Evelyn had taken the ring and was threatening to destroy the family if released.”
I almost laughed.
A captive woman became the threat.
Convenient.
“Did you believe her?”
“For a while.”
“And later?”
“I was afraid.”
There it was.
Again.
Not ideology.
Fear.
Peter walked away from the faction within months.
But he never came to me.
His guilt did not begin with agreement.
It began with silence after doubt.
May you like
Different crime.
Still consequence.
