Chapter 4
The Quiet Room required two things.
My signet ring.
And my voice.
My father designed it that way because he trusted blood less than he trusted paranoia.
Gavin could steal neither easily.
So he built another route.
Ownership.
The old internal rules surrounding the residence gave the recognized holder of the penthouse certain emergency access privileges during a leadership crisis. They were never supposed to replace the boss.
Unless someone first created the crisis.
I looked at Claire.
“What was supposed to happen to me?”
Her face tightened.
“Nothing.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“You don’t forge someone’s name across four properties because nothing is happening to them.”
She looked away.
“I was told you’d leave.”
“By choice?”
Silence.
“Claire.”
She whispered, “They said you’d have to.”
There it was.
Not death.
Removal.
Better for them.
A dead Serena creates loyalty.
A Serena who appears to walk away creates doubt.
I understood the shape.
Forge the transfers.
Make it look like I handed properties to Claire.
Then make me disappear from the organization long enough for Marco to claim I abandoned responsibility.
Gavin becomes the grieving husband betrayed by an unstable wife.
Claire becomes the friend supposedly entrusted with my property.
And Marco becomes the family elder forced to stabilize everything.
Elegant.
Almost.
“What were they going to use against me?”
Claire looked frightened.
“I don’t know.”
I stared.
She corrected herself.
“I don’t know exactly.”
Better.
“What did Gavin say?”
“That once the room opened, there was something your father left.”
“A recording?”
She nodded.
My stomach tightened.
My father loved recordings.
Especially when he did not trust the people who would hear them later.
“What about it?”
“Gavin said it could remove you.”
I almost laughed.
“My dead father can’t remove me.”
Claire looked at the sealed door.
“Marco thinks he can.”
That was enough.
I activated the lock.
My signet turned in the brass slot.
Then the old speaker crackled.
“State your name.”
“Serena Valenti.”
A click.
The door opened.
Claire took one step backward.
Inside was a narrow archive room.
No piles of cash.
No jewels.
One chair.
One table.
Three small metal boxes.
And a reel-to-reel recorder my father had used for private statements.
On top of it sat an envelope.
My name.
Written by my father.
Unopened.
May you like
Marco had spent months trying to reach something my father intended only for me.
And suddenly I wanted to know what frightened him so badly.
