Chapter 62 - The Crimson Horizon
I frowned slightly, walking over to my father as Julian stayed close beside me. "A document? Marcus, the corporate charters are already filed."
"Not corporate," Marcus said, opening the rosewood box.
Inside rested an antique parchment envelope, sealed not with the Montgomery crest, nor the Vance trident, but with a deep, blood-red wax stamp bearing a winged falcon clutching a broken anchor.
The moment Julian saw the wax seal, his entire posture transformed. The softness vanished, replaced instantly by the rigid, lethal stance of a man facing an existential threat.
"Where did you get that?" Julian demanded, his voice turning dead and sharp.
Marcus’s face darkened, the triumph of the past three days vanishing into an abyss of cold dread. "A courier delivered it to the harbor gate ten minutes ago. It didn't come through the Vance channels. Victor Vance was just an operative, Serena. He was a middleman."
My fingers hesitated over the envelope. "What do you mean, a middleman? Who does this seal belong to?"
Julian stepped forward, his eyes locked onto the broken anchor. "That is the house crest of the Kincaid Consortium. They control the deep-water sovereign ports across the Mediterranean. My father spent his entire naval career tracking their shadow fleets before he disappeared."
"And your mother," Marcus whispered, his eyes locked onto mine with a sorrow that cut deeper than any dagger, "was not an orphan from Boston, Serena. Eleanor was the exiled eldest daughter of Alistair Kincaid. The reason Victor and Valerie tried to destroy you wasn't just to steal Montgomery Maritime. They were hired to make sure you never claimed your mother's sovereign seat."
The music from the ballroom below swelled, floating up the spiral stairs, oblivious to the storm gathering in the master suite.
With trembling fingers, I broke the red wax seal and pulled out the single sheet of thick, cream-colored parchment.
Written in elegant, crimson ink was a single sentence, followed by an offshore coordinate located five miles off the coast of our harbor:
*“The foundation was just an introduction, little bird. Your father took you from our fleet twenty-four years ago. Return what is owed to the Kincaid bloodline before the tide turns red tonight, or Harbor House will burn to the waterline with everyone inside.”*
Down below, the sudden, deafening wail of the harbor’s deep-fog sirens cut through the classical music, followed by a violent tremor that shook the crystal chandeliers overhead.
May you like
Julian drew his weapon, slamming the balcony doors shut.
I looked down at the coordinates on the paper, then out at the black horizon where three massive, unmarked black battleships were cutting their running lights, moving silently into the bay.
