Chapter 3 - The King’s Empty Chair
Inside the master study of Blackwood Manor, the scent of Cole’s expensive Cuban cigars had already been eradicated.
Two maids, working under the silent direction of Nora’s old housekeeper, Martha, were opening the floor-to-ceiling French doors to let the clean, rain-scented night air purge the room. The mahogany desk—an ostentatious piece Cole had commissioned with carved lion heads on the corners—had been cleared of his brass nameplate, his whiskey decanter, and his gold-plated cigar cutter.
Nora sat not behind the desk, but in the high-backed wing chair by the unlit marble fireplace. She held a porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea, steam curling gently toward the coffered ceiling.
Malcolm Devereux, Walter Grange, and Elias Winter sat across from her.
"The regional captains have all signed the provisional recognition," Malcolm said, laying a thick leather binder on the low table between them. "Boston is secure. New York’s eastern terminals are completely locked down. The Philadelphia yards had three men who tried to contest the changeover, but Elias’s nephews handled them quietly."
"Casualties?" Nora asked, her tone even.
"A few broken collarbones. No bodies," Elias answered, his gravelly voice calm. "We followed your instructions, Nora. No unnecessary bloodshed. Samuel always said that dead men don't pay tariffs, and blood on the pavement brings the feds faster than counterfeit bonds."
Nora took a sip of her tea. Her father’s name—Samuel Bellamy—still carried weight, even after twelve years in the grave.
"And what of Victor Sterling?" she asked softly.
The room grew instantly colder. Even the rain outside seemed to quiet, as if the very walls feared that name.
Malcolm’s jaw tightened. "Sterling hasn't made a move. He’s still holed up in his estate outside Greenwich. But he knows. The moment Cole was evicted, Sterling’s private lines in Manhattan went dark."
Nora’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. "Cole was a fool, but he wasn't smart enough to coordinate the logistics of the Atlantic Coalition on his own. Someone provided him with the maritime codes. Someone gave him the old Bellamy routes through Delaware."
"You think Sterling was backing him?" Walter asked.
"I know he was," Nora said. "Cole didn't find that 1894 ledger at a random auction. Someone placed it where he could trip over it. Someone wanted Cole to believe he was conquering the Bellamy empire, so that when Cole inevitably overreached and brought the federal hammer down, the Bellamy routes would be broken up at fire-sale prices."
She set her teacup down with a delicate *clink*.
"Victor Sterling was my father’s chief accountant. He was the one who signed off on the security detail the night my father’s car was run off the bridge twelve years ago."
Malcolm leaned forward, his ancient hands gripping the arms of his chair until his veins stood out like cords. "If Sterling was behind Cole, then Cole isn't just an arrogant husband who cheated on you, Nora. He’s an accessory to your father’s murder."
"Cole is a blunt instrument," Nora said coldly. "He doesn't even know whose hand was holding him. But he will lead us to Sterling. When a stray dog is beaten and thrown into the rain, he always runs back to the man who fed him the scraps."
Dennis Crowley knocked twice on the open double doors of the study before stepping inside. He held a silver tray with a sealed manila envelope.
"Miss Bellamy," Dennis said respectfully. "Julian Vance has just arrived at the lower perimeter. He’s asking for an audience."
Malcolm frowned. "Julian Vance? Cole’s personal enforcer? Why hasn't he fled the state?"
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Nora smiled—a cold, beautiful expression that never reached her eyes. "Because Julian Vance has never worked for Cole Maddox. Tell him to come up, Dennis. Let's see what Cole left behind in his safe-deposit boxes."
***