Returning to the Lion’s Den
I arrived back at the Greenwich estate at 1:00 AM. The house stood like a tomb against the Connecticut woods. I let myself in through the side door. The air smelled of old paper and expensive wax.
I didn’t go to my room. I went to the study.
Robert was gone, likely retired to his wing of the house. I knew I had exactly one hour and seventeen minutes before his nightly 2:17 AM “visit.”
I walked to the portrait he had been staring at. I felt the edges of the frame. It was bolted to the wall. I looked at my silver medallion, then at the crescent-moon scar on my neck. My mother—or whoever she was—had always told me the scar was from a childhood accident with a broken mirror. But looking at the portrait, I saw the woman in the painting had a small, jeweled brooch in the shape of a crescent moon.
It wasn’t a scar. It was a brand.
I pressed my thumb against the center of the crescent moon on the wall carving beneath the portrait. There was a faint click.
A section of the mahogany paneling slid back, revealing a small, reinforced steel keypad. But it wasn’t just numbers. There was a glass plate for a palm print and a small, protruding sensor.
I remembered Robert’s words: “The mark is the key.”
I took a deep breath and pressed my left shoulder—the one with the scar—against the sensor. I felt a sharp, cold sting, like a laser scan.
Access Granted.
The heavy bookshelf groaned and swung inward.
The Vault of Sin
Behind the wall was a staircase leading down. It didn’t lead to a basement; it led to a bunker.
The room at the bottom was filled with filing cabinets, but not for legal cases. They were labeled by names of politicians, judges, and CEOs. This was the “blood money” Julia talked about. Blackmail.
In the center of the room was a single, ancient-looking safe. On top of it sat a photo.
