Chapter 7 - The Ghost of Blackwood
Out of the subterranean smoke rose Arthur Vanderbilt, the founding patriarch whose lavish state funeral a decade ago had been attended by prime ministers and presidents.
He was nearly eighty, his hair snow-white, his body wrapped in a tailored vintage smoking jacket that seemed utterly indifferent to the dust and fire around him. In his right hand, he held a leather-bound journal; in his left, a heavy cane tipped with solid obsidian. Behind him, the sub-basement blazed with an inferno consuming filing cabinets and computer servers.
Julian, who had been dragged halfway to the service door by Eleanor, stopped dead in his tracks. He tore his mother’s hands off him, turning around slowly. His eyes widened into hollow spheres of incomprehension.
"Grandfather...?" Julian breathed, the word barely surviving the roar of the fire.
Arthur didn't look at his grandson. His piercing, predatory eyes locked directly onto Clara, then shifted to Christian Sterling. A slow, thin smirk stretched across the old man’s weathered face.
"You did remarkably well, my dear Clara," Arthur’s voice was deep, resonant, and entirely steady. "I chose you for Julian because I thought your humble background would make you docile. I truly underestimated how fiercely an alley cat fights back when cornered."
"You..." Clara gasped, clutching her bruised shoulder as fresh blood trickled down her skin. "You were the one in the cellar. It was never Richard. Richard was just your guard dog."
"Richard is an idiot who panics under pressure," Arthur dismissed coldly, gesturing with his cane to the groaning man pinned on the floor by Christian’s operative. "He was supposed to manage the audit. Instead, he let you wander into my private laboratory."
Christian raised his firearm, leveling it directly at the patriarch's forehead. "Game over, Arthur. The syndicate is taking the Vanderbilt name off the global board tonight."
May you like
Arthur chuckled softly, tapping his cane against the edge of the crater. "Shoot an old ghost, Christian? Look around you. You brought private mercenaries to a party attended by half the federal judiciary." Arthur raised a small remote in his hand. "And you have precisely ninety seconds before the local police, escorted by SWAT, arrive to find Clara in the custody of known corporate terrorists."
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