Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Courtyard
Spring rolled gently into the early warmth of summer, transforming the Cold Spring estate into a vibrant oasis of blooming hydrangeas, emerald lawns, and ancient trees swaying in the Hudson Valley breeze.
For the first time in its century-long history, the grand mansion felt alive. The echoing, hollow silence that had once defined my existence was replaced by the bright, chaotic symphony of real life—the patter of tiny footsteps down the hallways, the rich aroma of Elena’s cooking drifting from the kitchens, and the deep, rumbling bark of Kaiser playing guard dog to a four-year-old girl who treated him like a giant stuffed animal.
I sat at the heavy oak desk in my private study, reviewing architectural blueprints for the Duca Foundation’s new regional family centers—facilities dedicated to housing and protecting displaced mothers and children, funded entirely by the seized assets of Marcus Vance’s corrupt syndicate.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open without a knock.
Viktor walked in, looking slightly more disheveled than usual, holding a secure encrypted tablet. His face carried that specific, grim tightness that usually meant trouble was knocking on the front gate.
“Speak, Viktor,” I said without looking up from my blueprints.
“We have a minor complication on the perimeter, boss,” Viktor reported, his voice dropping into a professional register. “A late-model black sedan pulled up to the outer security gates ten minutes ago. They aren't trying to breach, and they aren't armed. But the man sitting in the passenger seat refuses to leave until he speaks directly with you.”
I finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Who is it?”
“Attorney Arthur Pendelton,” Viktor replied, sliding the tablet across the desk to show a security camera feed of an elderly, immaculately dressed man in a three-piece suit sitting calmly inside the sedan. “He claims he was your father’s primary legal counsel before the Zurich restructuring fifteen years ago. He says he has documents regarding your family’s original estate holdings in Italy that were never liquidated during the syndicate wars.”
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I stared at the screen. Arthur Pendelton. The name tickred a distant memory in the back of my mind—a sharp, elderly lawyer who had abruptly retired and vanished to Europe right around the time my family was murdered.
“Bring him in,” I commanded, standing up from my desk. “Let’s see what kind of ghost has decided to show up on my doorstep.”
