Chapter 9 - The Panic at the Penthouse
On the forty-second floor of the Vance Tower, three blocks north of the St. Jude Hotel, the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the glowing grid of the city skyline.
Donald Vance stood before the glass, his silk dressing gown untied, holding a tumbler of Scotch in a hand that was noticeably unsteady. At seventy-one, Vance had spent two decades transforming himself from an obscure operational fixer into an untouchable civic titan. He had funded art museums, endowed university chairs, and sat on the governing boards of three commercial banks. He had erased his past with checks and charity balls.
The double doors of his private office burst open.
Vivienne entered, her emerald gown disheveled, her blonde hair coming loose from its formal pins. Her face was flushed, her chest rising and falling in erratic gasps.
"Dad," she choked out, closing the heavy doors behind her and leaning back against them. "He's here."
Donald Vance did not turn around immediately. He took a slow sip from his glass, though his shoulders were visibly tense. "You're late from the gala. Did the press get the photos of the endowment check?"
"Did you hear what I said?!" Vivienne screamed, crossing the room and slamming her beaded clutch onto his mahogany desk. "Dominic Valerio is at the St. Jude! He's in the ballroom right now!"
The tumbler of Scotch slipped from Donald Vance’s hand.
It struck the marble base of the floor lamp, shattering into jagged shards and splashing amber liquor across the hand-woven rug.
Vance slowly turned to face his daughter. His face, usually a mask of tanned, patrician arrogance, had turned a sickening shade of gray. The blood vessels across his cheeks stood out like spiderwebs.
"What did you say?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"He was there," Vivienne sobbed, the terror she had suppressed during her drive finally spilling over. "He was wearing black. He had no invitation. I... I poured champagne on him, Dad. I thought he was an outsider trying to cause a scene. I told Campbell to throw him out!"
"You did what?" Vance gasped, his eyes bulging as he gripped the edge of his desk for support. "You poured wine on him?"
"Campbell bowed to him!" Vivienne cried, pulling the vintage photograph from her clutch and throwing it onto the desk. "Eleanor Sterling had this! Look at it! Look at who is standing behind him!"
Vance picked up the photograph with hands that rattled like dry leaves. He looked at the faded print—at Julian, at the young Dominic, and at himself standing in the shadow of the velvet curtains, holding Julian's coat with the subservient posture of an employee.
"Where did she get this?" Vance croaked.
"Turn it over," Vivienne said, her voice dropping into a horrified whisper. "Read what Julian wrote. Read what he promised him."
Vance turned the photograph over.
His eyes scanned the sharp, sepia handwriting. The message had been penned on the night of Dominic’s twenty-first birthday:
To my son Dominic:
This house is built on blood, but guarded by honor. Donald holds the wheel, but you hold the deed. If ever the shadow forgets the light, take what was forged, break the false foundation, and bury the thief beneath his own stolen stone.
— Julian Valerio, October 2002.
Donald Vance sank slowly into his leather executive chair. His breath came in shallow, rattling gasps. The room, high above the city, suddenly felt like an iron cage closing in around him.
"He didn't die," Vance muttered to himself, his voice distant and hollow. "The boat down south... we watched it burn to the waterline. The manifests were cleared. The coroner signed off..."
"He's alive, Dad!" Vivienne yelled, gripping his lapels. "And he said Campbell has the original logbooks! He knows you didn't buy the estate! He knows everything!"
Vance looked at his daughter, his eyes wide and completely empty of the arrogance that had shielded her entire life.
"Get the passports," Vance whispered.
"What?"
"Get the passports from the wall safe," Vance commanded, his voice rising into a cracked panic. "Pack whatever jewelry you can carry in two bags. We have forty minutes before he locks down the regional airports."
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"Dad, you're the chairman of the board!" Vivienne shouted in disbelief. "We have the lawyers, we have the city council, we have—"
"You don't understand what he is," Vance cut her off, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated dread. "The council belongs to whoever pays them. Dominic doesn't pay people, Vivienne. He owns them. And if he has set foot back inside the St. Jude, there is nowhere in this country where his shadow cannot find us."
