Chapter 34 - The Gilded Blackmail
"I told Julian you were predictable, little niece," a woman's voice purred from the darkness.
Out from behind a stack of weathered crates stepped Beatrice—or rather, a version of my mother that looked slicker, harder, and entirely devoid of human warmth. She wore a tailored black cashmere coat, diamonds glittering at her throat, but her eyes held the rabid, desperate gleam of a cornered animal. Behind her stood two hulking men in dark overcoats, their hands tucked menacingly into their jackets.
"Beatrice," I said coldly, stepping forward so Hayes was slightly behind me, shielding Alistair. "How did you get out of Wisconsin? The bond conditions on your fraud indictment forbade you from leaving the state."
"A million dollars in cash buys a private charter out of an unmarked runway in northern Ontario," Beatrice laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "You thought you won when you took the Kenosha house, Lenora? You thought your pathetic little restraining orders meant anything to real money?"
"Real money?" Hayes snapped, his voice deadly quiet. "You sold out your own bloodline to Julian Vance for scraps, Beatrice. You’re an accessory to felony maritime fraud in three different jurisdictions."
Beatrice’s face contorted with pure venom. "Shut up, Hayes! You chose this little ingrate over your own family! The Vance syndicate has offered me five million dollars and a villa in Monaco the moment this vault is signed over to them. Douglas hated me from the day I was born because I refused to grovel before his sanctimonious 'family honor.' He built an empire and left me pennies, while this brat inherits the whole damn world!"
"He left you nothing because he knew who you were," I said, my voice echoing off the granite walls with steady, unforgiving power. "He knew you would burn down everything our ancestors built just to buy yourself a row of designer bags and an illusion of importance."
"Hand over the combination to the safe, Lenora," Beatrice demanded, stepping forward while one of her hired enforcers drew a heavy semi-automatic handgun. "Julian’s solicitors are waiting upstairs. You sign the deed of transfer right now, or you three won't leave this cellar alive. The tides rise high at midnight. Accidents happen in old dockyards all the time."
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch.
"You really think Grandfather left the sovereign charter behind a combination safe that could be opened at gunpoint?" I asked, raising my chin. "Look at the seal on that door, Beatrice. It's a dual-custody pressure lock. It requires the original 1845 iron key, and a verified direct DNA biological imprint sample registered with the Bank of Ireland trust department."
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Beatrice froze, her eyes darting between me and the massive safe. "You're lying."
"Try opening it without me," I challenged, taking a step toward her. "The moment you force that lock without the biological authorization, the internal mechanism releases a canister of concentrated industrial acid, dissolving the entire contents into sludge. If that happens, Julian Vance gets nothing. And if Julian gets nothing, how long do you think you'll survive on his payroll?"
