Chapter 6
Malcolm Flynn was seventy.
My father’s younger cousin.
Retired captain.
Family historian.
Professional storyteller.
The man who gave speeches about loyalty at every funeral.
Of course.
Nolan had discovered Malcolm visiting Red Hollow after midnight.
Three times.
Dahlia treated him differently.
Not like ally.
Like authority.
“What does Malcolm want?”
Nolan drank slowly.
“To correct Dad’s mistake.”
Meaning Vincent.
Malcolm believed my father had built Flynn success by using Vane labor while reserving status for blood.
That part, apparently, he had believed for decades.
But instead of correcting history honestly, Malcolm created a new fantasy.
Two founding branches.
Flynn and Vane.
Equal.
One blood leader from Flynn.
One household commander from Vane.
A permanent dual structure.
Dahlia loved it.
Ellis saw himself becoming security head.
Malcolm saw himself becoming the elder who designed the new balance.
And Nolan?
Figurehead.
“They thought I’d agree because I hate ceremony.”
I almost smiled.
“You do.”
“I hate your speeches too.”
“Good to have you back.”
He laughed.
Then became serious.
“They’ve been building support.”
“How many?”
“Eight captains. Maybe nine.”
My stomach tightened.
Not enough to overthrow me cleanly.
Enough to create division.
Nolan explained the method.
No weapons.
No open rebellion.
They were using estate access.
Housing.
Jobs.
Favors.
Men whose sons needed work.
Widows whose roofs needed fixing.
Retired associates who wanted relevance.
Dahlia managed property.
Ellis managed security.
Together they could make help feel like personal Vane generosity instead of Flynn resources.
Loyalty quietly redirected.
Clever.
Then Nolan told me why Archie mattered.
Dahlia hated what my son represented.
Not the child.
The future.
Another Flynn born into belonging she believed her father never received.
She had made comments before.
Nolan heard one.
“Three years old and already worth more than Vincent ever was.”
I felt something cold settle behind my ribs.
Archie had done nothing.
Again, adults assigning old debts to new children.
Nolan saw my face.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Turn this into Vane versus Flynn.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“Vincent was wronged.”
Silence.
“Dahlia is also wrong.”
Both.
Difficult.
Necessary.
I nodded.
Then:
“Where’s Malcolm?”
Nolan smiled bitterly.
“Probably at your house.”
I stood.
May you like
Of course.
The historian would want to control the story before I returned.
