Chapter 4
The interior of the custom black Maybach was a sanctuary of silent luxury. Deep black leather, polished walnut veneer, and tinted acoustic glass insulated the cabin from the noisy suburban avenues outside.
In the rear captain's chair, Effie was strapped securely into her leather car seat. She had washed her hands with a warm, lemon-scented towelette that Lysander had provided, and now she held a small box of warm, fresh sugar pastries that the driver had picked up from a private bakery on the corner. She chewed contentedly, the terror of the luncheon slowly fading behind the innocence of her three years.
Lysander sat opposite her, his overcoat unbuttoned, his legs crossed. On the fold-out conference table rested a tablet displaying real-time bank ledger balances and corporate filings.
Sitting in the front passenger seat was Julian Vance, Lysander’s chief legal counsel and most dangerous corporate fixer. Julian adjusted his thin gold-rimmed spectacles, glancing back through the partition.
"She wasn't acting purely out of petty jealousy, Lysander," Julian said quietly, handing back a sealed legal file. "Elfrida was emboldened for a reason."
Lysander took the file, flicking it open with his thumb. "Explain."
"Three weeks ago, while you were overseeing the dockland expansion in Rotterdam, an ex-parte motion was filed in the New York Probate Court," Julian said. "Uncle Bartholomew and Elfrida hired Marcus Sterling’s firm to draft a petition challenging your fitness as Effie’s legal guardian."
Lysander’s dark eyes narrowed into slits. "On what grounds?"
"Unstable lifestyle, dangerous business associations, and supposed emotional neglect," Julian replied, his voice laced with venom. "They claimed that because your late wife, Clara, left the controlling shares of the shipping consortium directly to Effie under a blind trust, your 'criminal reputation' posed a risk to the asset's governance. They intended to provoke a public scene today. That slap, Lysander... Elfrida had two witnesses positioned near the arbor with cameras."
Effie looked up from her pastry, her hazel eyes blinking at the serious tone of the men's voices. "Daddy? Is the bad aunt coming to our house?"
Lysander looked at his daughter, his expression instantly smoothing into gentle reassurance. "No, little bird. The bad aunt is never coming near our house again."
Effie smiled softly, satisfied with his word, and went back to picking sugar crystals off her napkin.
Lysander turned his gaze back to Julian. The warmth vanished, replaced by an arctic chill that made the interior of the car feel sub-zero.
"Who signed the preliminary hearing warrant, Julian?"
"Judge Harlan Cross," Julian said. "He’s been dining at the St. Jude Yacht Club on Bartholomew's tab for a decade."
"Cross," Lysander muttered, remembering the corrupt magistrate who had spent twenty years taking kickbacks from waterfront developers. "He thinks because Clara is gone, the Farrow name is up for salvage."
"He scheduled an emergency custody hearing for tomorrow morning at nine o'clock," Julian warned. "If Cross executes an interim wardship order, Child Protective Services will have legal authority to take Effie into temporary custody—and Elfrida will be appointed her trustee."
Lysander closed the file with a soft snap that sounded like a breaking bone. He tapped his signet ring against the walnut table.
"They think I am constrained by their courtrooms," Lysander said, his baritone dropping to a lethal whisper. "They think because I put on this tailored suit, I forgot the rules of the docks."
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"What are your orders, sir?" Julian asked, his hand hovering over his phone.
"Tell Viktor to meet us at the brownstone," Lysander commanded. "And call Judge Cross’s private line. Tell him I will be visiting his chambers before sunset."
