Chapter 6: A Visitor at the Iron Gates
The heavy iron gates of the Vance estate rarely welcomed strangers, which made the appearance of a battered gray sedan idling on the gravel road outside such a jarring anomaly. From the high window of the second-floor library, Custa watched through the heavy velvet drapes as two men in plain gray suits stepped out of the vehicle and approached the intercom box.
Viktor stood just behind the boy, his arms crossed over his black shirt, his face an unreadable mask of cold vigilance. Down below, one of the guards through the security speaker exchanged tense words with the visitors before buzzing them away. The sedan did not enter; instead, it backed down the narrow country lane and vanished into the gray afternoon fog.
"Who are they?" Custa asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He had learned that speaking unprompted usually brought a reprimand, but the fear in the air was palpable enough to break his conditioning.
Viktor looked down at the toddler, noticing for the first time how small the boy looked against the massive proportions of the mansion. "They are people who want to take what belongs to the Vances," Viktor said, his tone devoid of warmth. "They use paper and ink instead of iron and fists, but their intent is the same. They want to dismantle everything your ancestors built."
"Why?"
"Because power frightens weak men," Viktor replied, placing a heavy, scarred hand on the boy's shoulder. The grip was firm, almost painful, but it was also grounding. "And because they know that as long as a Vance sits at the head of this table, they will never truly control the valley."
Later that evening, the tension in the dining room was thick enough to cut with a bread knife. Eleanor sat at the opposite end of the mahogany table, her pearl necklace gleaming under the crystal chandelier. The name card was gone, replaced by a silver placard bearing the full, uncorrected name: Custa Vance. The toddler sat in his high-backed chair, wearing the same gray vest and light blue shirt, staring down at a plate of plain broth and dry toast.
"They've filed a petition in the county court," Eleanor announced, breaking the silence as the butler cleared away the soup tureens. "Challenging the guardianship. They claim the boy's mother never legally relinquished her shares before she vanished. If the judge rules in their favor, the estate goes into receivership."
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Viktor’s jaw tightened until the bone cracked audibly. "Let them try. The county judge owes us three favors from the zoning dispute last decade. He won't rule against us."
"Judges die, Viktor," Eleanor said quietly, her eyes fixed on her wineglass. "And loyalties change when the money dries up. We need to prepare for the possibility that the walls aren't high enough anymore."
