Chapter 3 - The Price of Treachery
Clara took a step back up the stairs, holding the heavy steel box tight. "You kicked a three-pound puppy, Grant. You set fire to my grandmother's house."
"I was running out of time!" Grant snapped, his composure slipping into desperate anger. "Do you have any idea who I owe money to? The renovation funds I funneled into your house weren't mine! They were high-interest loans from the Blackwood Syndicate! If I don't deliver the title to this house and the ledger inside that box by midnight, they're going to put me in the bay!"
"The ledger?" Clara echoed, her mind piecing together the terrifying puzzle. "My grandmother was a boarding house owner. What ledger could she possibly have that a mafia syndicate wants?"
"Pearl Calloway wasn't just a landlord, Clara," Grant sneered, taking another step forward. "She was the chief accountant for the entire waterfront district in the seventies. Every dirty bribe, every off-book payment, every politician owned by the mafia was logged in her books! This house is built on a fortune of hidden black-market collateral!"
Grant pulled a heavy brass pry-bar from inside his coat. "Give me the box, Clara. Sign the legal release I sent you, and I'll make sure they leave you alive. If you refuse, I'll take the box and leave you in this burning wreck."
"She won't be giving you anything, Mr. Vance."
A low, commanding voice vibrated through the scorched hall.
Grant froze.
From the dark shadow of the front parlor, three men stepped into the light. At the center stood the silver-haired stranger from the veterinary clinic. He wore a tailored dark suit, black leather gloves, and carried an umbrella with a silver falcon handle. Behind him were two broad-shouldered men in silent dark coats, their hands resting comfortably inside their pockets.
Grant’s face turned ash-white. His knees actually buckled slightly. "M-Mr. Blackwood..."
The stranger didn't look at Grant. He stepped past him as if he were nothing more than trash on the floor and stopped at the base of the stairs, looking up at Clara with quiet, profound respect.
"Miss Whitmore," the man said smoothly. "I am Victor Blackwood. I believe it is time we had a proper introduction."
Grant scrambled backward toward the door. "Mr. Blackwood! I have the location! The box is right there! I found it for you!"
Victor Blackwood slowly turned his head toward Grant. His gray eyes were as sharp as surgical steel. "You beat an innocent animal, Mr. Vance. You attempted to burn a historic estate without my authorization. And worst of all, you brought chaos to my front door."
May you like
Victor flicked his gloved wrist. The two broad-shouldered men instantly moved, pinning Grant against the doorframe before he could scream. One of them pressed a silenced handgun against Grant’s ribs.
"Take him to the harbor garage," Victor ordered coldly. "We will deal with his debts after Miss Whitmore and I finish our conversation."
