“And Preston?” I asked, adjusting my cuffs.
“Marcus’s second tactical unit has successfully sealed the stairwells and locked down the service elevator on fifty-nine,” Tasha reported with grim satisfaction. “He has absolutely nowhere to go but up to the dining room.”
“Good,” I whispered, watching the glowing floor indicator climb: 50… 55… 58… 60. “Let the curtain rise.”
The lift chimed and its brass doors parted to the soft, elegant strains of a live chamber quartet playing Chopin. But the music was abruptly drowned out by the sound of high-pitched, hysterical crying echoing down the hallway.
CHAPTER 4: THE PREDATORS’ FEAST
The Skyline Level was The Opeline’s crown jewel. Eight hundred feet above the streets, its private dining room had a curved glass wall offering a panoramic, 360-degree view of the twinkling harbor lights and the vast, black ocean beyond.
The room was bathed in the warm glow of recessed amber sconces and twenty-four-karat gold leaf chandeliers. In the center stood a thirty-foot table made from one flawless slab of fallen English walnut.
At the distant end of the table, dwarfed by the high ceilings, sat my father.
Richard Sterling turned sixty-five that night, yet beneath the amber light he appeared eighty. His silver hair was untidy. His shoulders sagged inside a charcoal tuxedo that hung loosely on his shrinking, defeated frame. His hands shook as he turned an empty crystal whiskey glass.
Arthur Keating and Miles Sutter occupied the opposite end. Keating was a silver-haired sovereign-wealth magnate, a man whose mere signature could move global market indices; Sutter was his chief lawyer, a terrifyingly quiet man with the dead, calculating eyes of a taxidermist. Both sipped vintage Barolo, glancing impatiently at their expensive watches.
Suddenly, the double oak doors at the far end of the room swung open with a muffled, heavy thud.
Eleanor, Harper, and Connor entered unsteadily, shepherded firmly but without a word by Marcus’s guards. Eleanor’s immaculate makeup was running, sweat streaking her expensive foundation. Harper clutched Connor’s arm until her knuckles whitened, her eyes darting frantically around the opulent room like a trapped animal searching for an exit that didn’t exist.
Before Eleanor could even open her mouth to spin a desperate lie, Keating rose. His stern face brightened in a genuine smile.
“Blair!” Keating boomed, ignoring Eleanor completely as he strode across the Persian rug with an outstretched hand. “Good heavens, my dear girl! When my assistant told me you might actually drop by tonight, I thought she was pulling my leg! I’ve been trying to secure thirty minutes on your calendar since the Monaco Hospitality Summit back in May!”
Miles Sutter rose as well, extending a highly deferential hand. “Ms. Sterling. It is an extraordinary honor. We were under the firm impression this private salon was completely booked out by an outside corporate entity tonight, but your Chief of Staff informed us you were hosting a private family dinner.”
Eleanor froze at the center of the carpet. Her knees gave way. Connor coughed hoarsely, sinking into the nearest leather chair and burying his red face in his hands.
“Arthur, Miles,” I said, shaking both their hands with a firm, measured grip. “Thank you for coming to The Opeline tonight. I understand you were invited here by my mother and my sister to discuss a… rather ambitious financial partnership.”
Keating frowned slightly, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere. “Yes. Mrs. Sterling and Mr. Weller presented us with an extraordinary memorandum of understanding yesterday afternoon. They claimed their boutique firm held a controlling equity stake in the Opeline flagship properties, and they were seeking a fifty-million-dollar short-term liquidity facility to expand the brand into the Asian market.”
Keating turned his gaze toward Eleanor, his expression sharpening into the ruthless, predatory calculation that had made him a billionaire. “Though I must admit, Eleanor, I was somewhat perplexed by your documentation. You claimed your daughter Blair was merely a… minor clerical coordinator for your estate.”
Before Eleanor could respond, the service doors flew open.
Marcus strode inside, his massive left hand wrapped securely around the back of Preston Weller’s neck like an iron vise. Preston was deathly pale, his Brioni suit badly creased, his hair plastered to his forehead with nervous perspiration. Marcus carried Preston’s heavy monogrammed case in his other hand.
“Get your hands off me!” Preston shrieked, his voice cracking into an undignified squawk. “Harper! Eleanor! Tell this lunatic who I am! I am a managing partner of Weller & Sterling Capital! I have every legal right to inspect the property records!”
Marcus pushed Preston forward without speaking. Preston tripped over the edge of the walnut dining table, landing awkwardly on the polished surface, his case bursting open.
Thick parchment sheets spilled across the table, scattering wildly across the fine bone china and crystal glassware.
I approached the table slowly, and took the top three documents.
“Let’s see what we have here,” I said, my voice quiet, cutting through the cavernous room like a surgical scalpel. “A corporate resolution, dated yesterday, officially naming Harper Sterling as Executive Vice President of the Opeline Hospitality Group. With my forged signature scrawled at the bottom.”
Keating stared. He bent forward, picking up the second sheet. “Good lord.”
“And here,” I continued, holding up another document, “a deed of indemnity, pledging the entire physical assets of The Opeline Hotel as collateral for a fifty-million-dollar loan to bail out Connor Vance’s logistics firm and pay off Harper’s fashion showroom lease defaults.”
“Preston…” Harper sobbed, sinking to her knees beside the dining table, the diamonds glittering mockingly at her throat. “Preston, what did you do? You told me you had friends in the land registry office! You told me it was all completely legal!”
“Shut up, Harper!” Preston screamed, scrambling to his knees. His suave, country-club veneer was completely gone, exposing the feral, ugly panic of a cornered con artist. “You’re the one who begged me to fix it! You’re the one who said your sister was a stupid maid who would never know the difference! You told me she was illiterate in corporate law!”
“Enough.”
The word wasn’t shouted, but it slammed into the room with the kinetic force of a falling portcullis.
I faced Keating. “Arthur, Miles. I sincerely apologize for this grotesque theater. My family seems to have temporarily forgotten that you cannot sell a building when the person who built it is standing in the room.”
Keating regarded Eleanor, then at Harper on the floor, his face twisting into an expression of cold, aristocratic disgust. “You attempted to defraud my fund out of fifty million dollars using stolen letterhead and a forged identity. At a birthday dinner for your own husband.”
Keating set his Barolo glass down on the table with a sharp, definitive click.
“Miles,” Keating said, not taking his eyes off Eleanor’s trembling form. “Call the Federal Trade Commission and our corporate litigation team at Sullivan & Cromwell immediately. Freeze every single account associated with Weller Capital and the Sterling PR agency. If there is a single dime of my firm’s due-diligence money in their hands, I want criminal indictments filed before breakfast.”
“Immediately, Arthur,” Sutter said smoothly, already dialing his phone as he walked toward the exit.
“No! Arthur, please!” Eleanor cried out, lunging toward the billionaire, her fingers clawing desperately at his tailored sleeve. “It was a mistake! We were desperate! Connor’s business was failing, they were going to repossess Harper’s apartment—we only needed the money for six months! We are a good family! We have pedigree!”
