Part 1: The Turning Handle

The pri

vate medical suite at the Vance Estate smelled of wintergreen and sterile linen.

It had been four days since the night in the basement.

My ribs were bound in a specialized medical brace, the pain reduced to a dull, throbbing ache that allowed me to finally take a full breath of clean air.

My father sat in the armchair by the window, a crystal glass of scotch resting untouched on the side table.

He was reading through a thick stack of financial ledgers.

— The mistress is named Elena Vance-Caruso, my father said without looking up from the pages. She’s the niece of Johnny Caruso out of New York.

The name made my skin crawl.

The Caruso family was old mafia money, a brutal syndicate that had been trying to get a foothold in our shipping lanes for a decade.

— Evan wasn't just having an affair, Claire, my father continued, turning a page with a crisp click. He was selling them our corporate security codes. He used your marriage to get close to our logistics network.

— He wanted the port keys, I whispered, my voice still raspy from the basement dust.

— He wanted my throne, my father corrected me, his eyes lifting from the paper, cold and absolute. And he thought beating you would force you to sign over the deed to the lakefront property I gave you for your birthday.

He stood up, walking over to the bed and placing a heavy gold signet ring on my tray.

It was Evan’s family ring.

The one his grandfather had given him, the one he wore like a badge of aristocratic honor.

It was covered in dark, dried stains.

— Where is he, Dad? I asked, touching the cold gold.

— He’s currently sitting in a holding facility near the shipyard, my father stated, his voice completely devoid of emotion. Johnny Caruso tried to send a crew to pull him out last night.

— What happened?

My father picked up his scotch, taking a slow, deliberate sip.

— The Caruso crew didn't make it past the toll bridge, he said. Their cars were found in the river this morning. The New York families are already calling for a sit-down. They want a truce.

I looked at the ring, remembering the way Evan had looked down at me on the kitchen floor, telling me to reflect on my behavior.

The memory didn't make me cry anymore.

It made me hard.

— No truce, I said, my fingers closing tightly around the gold ring until the metal dug into my skin. You told him there wouldn't be a corner of this city that could hide him.