Chapter 83 - The Sins of Eleanor Vance
I raised the shotgun, leveling the barrel squarely at the entrance. "Step out. Hands where I can see them."
The footsteps stopped. A silhouette emerged into the harsh halogen glow, and for a split second, my finger nearly contracted on the trigger.
It was not Eleanor.
It was an older man in a charcoal three-piece suit, his posture impeccably rigid, a silver pocket watch chain draped across his vest. He looked seventy, his face carved with deep, cynical lines, his left eye obscured by a mil-spec prosthetic implant that glowed with a faint cerulean diode.
"Lower the weapon, Julian," the man said, his voice carrying the dry, aristocratic cadence of old New England money. "If I intended to liquidate you, the airlock’s automated CIWS turrets would have turned your little submersible into fish food before your ballast pumps cleared the basin."
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, keeping the gun centered on his chest.
"I am Harrison Croft," he replied smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Chief Counsel and Executive Custodian of Arthur Vance's sovereign holdings. And formerly, the man who spent twenty-five years ensuring your mother didn't poison your grandfather’s morning espresso."
Victoria took a half-step forward, her weapon still drawn. "Croft was Arthur’s legal shadow. The Syndicate thought you disappeared five years ago in the Zurich purge."
"The Syndicate thinks many things that are convenient for their collective peace of mind," Croft remarked with a cold smile. "Arthur staged my demise with the same elegance he staged his own funeral. Julian, your grandfather spent forty years playing chess against an enemy that lived under his own roof."
"My mother," I said, lowering the shotgun slightly, though my grip remained white-knuckled.
"Eleanor was never just your mother, boy," Croft said, turning to lead us down the marble corridor. "She was the daughter of Klaus Sterling—the founder of the Obsidian Consortium. Arthur took her into our home thirty years ago not out of affection for your father, but as a hostage of an ongoing shadow war. Richard Vance was simply the pathetic, blind fool who fell in love with a viper."
"And me?" I asked, my voice tightening. "Where do I fit into this sick family portrait?"
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Croft stopped at the threshold of a massive round chamber dominated by a glowing circular holographic interface.
"You were Arthur’s masterstroke," Croft said, looking at me with a gaze that felt like cold surgical steel. "You weren't meant to inherit his money, Julian. You were bred to dismantle them."
