Chapter 2: The Whispering Gallery
"The meeting is adjourned," Victor announced. His tone was not an apology; it was a command that left no room for defiance.
Outrage erupted among the board members, but Victor didn't care. He swept past Beatrice, gripping the charred journal against his chest, and gestured for the two boys to follow him into the private executive suite behind the stage.
The private office was a fortress of soundproof glass and brushed steel overlooking the city skyline. Once inside, the heavy titanium doors hissed shut, locking out the frantic swarm of reporters and executives.
"Sit," Victor said softly.
Toby sat cautiously on the edge of a deep leather sofa, his small frame almost swallowed by the furniture. Leo remained standing, guarding his brother like a sentinel.
"Who sent you here?" Victor asked, kneeling so he was at eye level with the boys. Up close, the resemblance between Leo and Michael was striking—the sharp brow, the steady, unyielding hazel eyes.
"Nobody sent us," Leo replied. "Mom died three months ago from lung failure. Before she passed, she gave me the journal and a key. She said Michael died so you could build something great. But she saw the news. She saw you tearing down the East District slums to build your luxury towers. She said you forgot the cost of your life."
Victor closed his eyes as an old guilt flared behind his ribs. For twelve years, he had told himself that Michael’s death was an unavoidable casualty of corporate survival. He had paid off the investigators and buried the incident under millions of dollars in philanthropic donations.
"I didn't know he was trapped until the blast doors sealed automatically," Victor whispered, more to himself than to the boys.
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"He knew that," Leo said, pulling a brass key with a stamped serial number from his pocket. "He forgave you for running. But he said if you ever sold out the people who built your foundation, this key would bring your empire down."
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