Chapter 9
Oswin went entirely rigid. Every muscle in his broad frame locked into place, his breath catching in his chest.
"Helena?" Oswin murmured, his voice barely a rasp. "Helena died in the hospital three years ago. I buried her in the family vault."
"We know, Boss," Silas said gently, placing a second document onto the desk. "We checked the death certificate ourselves back in twenty-three. But Albright had a wire confirmation from forty-eight hours ago. Two million dollars routed from the Saint-Moritz Credit Union into Julian Croft’s private escrow account. The authorized signature on the digital transfer was Helena Vance-Marlowe."
Oswin grabbed the wire receipt, holding it beneath the green banker's lamp.
The cursive signature was identical to the one on Celia’s birth certificate—the sharp, elegant slant of a woman who had grown up in the elite boarding schools of New England before marrying into the underworld.
"Her family," Oswin said, his jaw working as his mind tore through three years of memories. "The Vance family never accepted the marriage. They blamed me for her illness."
"Senator Vance was at Table Four today, Boss," Marcus reminded him quietly. "He left fifteen minutes before you broke the ring. He was the first guest to clear the front gate."
Oswin slammed his fist down onto the desk, splintering the polished corner of the mahogany blotter. The crystal decanter rattled, liquor sloshing against the glass.
"They used Leopoldine as the blade," Oswin snarled, his eyes burning with raw, predatory fury. "The Crofts were just the hired muscle to take the port. The real architect was Helena’s father."
"Senator Vance wants his granddaughter, Mr. Marlowe," Silas said. "He believes Celia belongs in the Vance estate in Boston. He used Leopoldine to extract her legally so he wouldn't have to launch an armed raid against your walls."
"And if I had died from the toast?" Oswin asked.
"He would have claimed Celia as her sole surviving maternal grandparent," Silas replied. "The court would have handed her over within forty-eight hours. The entire Marlowe empire would have been dissolved into the Vance family trusts."
Oswin turned slowly toward the dark windows of the library.
Beyond the glass, night had fallen across the estate. The harbor lights flickered across the black water, cold and distant. On the lawn below, four armed patrols moved in tight, disciplined sweeps, their assault rifles held across their chests, guarding the house where his daughter lay sleeping.
"Where is Senator Vance right now?" Oswin asked.
"His private jet is fueling at Teterboro Airport," Marcus said, checking his tactical wristwatch. "Scheduled departure for Boston at eight-fifteen. That gives us forty minutes before he clears the airspace."
Oswin reached into his waistcoat pocket.
He pulled out his family signet ring, sliding it back onto his left pinky finger. He smoothed down the peaked satin lapels of his dinner jacket, buttoning the center button with cold, mechanical precision.
"Marcus," Oswin said.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Call the airport authority. Tell them there is a suspected fuel leak on Runway Three. Ground all private departures until further notice."
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"Right away, sir." Marcus pulled his phone and hurried toward the door.
Oswin looked at Silas. "Bring my overcoat. And bring the heavy hardware from the gun room."
