Chapter 5 - The Cincinnati Buyer
Julian stood frozen for three seconds, his eyes darting between my father and me. The mask of polite concern had completely vanished, replaced by a flash of venomous frustration.
“You’re making a huge mistake,” Julian hissed, grabbing his folders off the table. He pointed a finger at my father, then glared at me. “When the bank seizes this property next week and throws you both out into the snow, don't come crying to my firm for help. You’re completely broke, and you don't have a week left before the courts lock this house down forever.”
With a violent pivot, Julian turned on his heel and stormed out of the parlor.
Clack, clack, clack went his expensive Italian loafers across the hardwood floor. A moment later, the front door slammed so hard the windows rattled in their frames.
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.
I turned back toward my father. Arthur was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his flannel shirt, his face flushed a dull, alarming shade of crimson.
“Are you alright?” I asked, rushing across the room and placing a hand on his frail shoulder.
“The boy... he’s right about one thing,” Arthur whispered, his voice trembling as he stared into the dying embers of the fire. “The Cincinnati investment firm... they’re buying up all my commercial liens. But it’s not to save the estate. It’s a hostile takeover.”
“What is the name of the firm?” I asked, my instincts as a former banker’s wife—and a woman who had spent fifty years watching men like Julian operate—flaring to life.
“Vanguard Commercial Holdings,” Arthur muttered, closing his eyes. “Run by a man named Sterling. Arthur Sterling.”
My heart skipped a beat.
Sterling.
The exact same name that had appeared on the federal asset seizure alerts in Chicago. The same name tied to Moretti Logistics and my father-in-law’s syndicate.
Before I could ask another question, Arthur reached into his shirt pocket with a trembling hand, pulled out a small, old-fashioned brass key, and pressed it into my palm.
“The secretary desk in the corner,” Arthur whispered, his eyes locking onto mine with desperate urgency. “Open the bottom drawer, Eleanor. The real deeds aren't in Julian’s folders. And what’s inside that drawer is the only thing standing between us and total ruin.”
I took the key, my fingers curling tightly around the cold brass. I walked slowly across the dusty parlor toward the heavy oak secretary desk, inserted the key into the brass lock, and turned it.
May you like
The drawer slid open with a soft, ominous click.
Inside, resting on top of a stack of yellowed financial ledgers, was a single, pristine corporate dossier bearing a date from three days ago—and a signature that made my blood run instantly cold.
