Chapter 2

The armored Maybach 62S glided across rain‑glossed Fifth Avenue asphalt. Outside, neon from Rockefeller Center smeared across the reinforced privacy glass. Inside the cabin, only the low hum of climate control broke the heavy silence.

Jennie huddled in the far corner of the leather captain's seat, knees drawn in to look small and harmless. Her gown hem was damp from night dew, and she shivered on purpose to draw sympathy.

Across the console, Antone sat rigid. An unlit Montecristo cigar lay next to a leather‑bound merger brief. He flipped through pages with cold, mechanical movements. He had not said a word since leaving the club garage.

Jair turned around from the front passenger seat and held out a steaming porcelain cup of unsweetened Earl Grey tea.

"Jennie," the chief of staff said evenly. "Should we stop at NewYork‑Presbyterian for an evaluation? Shock stress can show up unexpectedly."

Jennie took the cup with both hands. Her fingers rattled slightly against the saucer before she steadied them.

"Thank you, Jair. No hospital is needed. I am just shaken." She dropped her gaze. "I do not want press attention. A scandal would upset Grandpa."

Antone's finger paused mid‑page. He did not lift his head, yet the silence grew thicker.

Jennie reached inside her satin clutch and pulled out a tarnished metal dog tag. She held it under the dim overhead reading light. It bore Arden's name and military serial number, edges scuffed by sand and age.

She pressed the cold metal against her throat, right above her pulse.

"I came looking for the key to Father's footlocker." Her voice carried quiet grief. "Byron told me he kept it at the club. When I got there, he was gone. Only his friends were there."

She stopped short, drawing a sharp breath, as if she could not bear to repeat what had happened.

"Grandpa's Alzheimer's has gotten worse this week." Jennie stared into her tea. "He sits for hours by the bay window in Long Island, calling Father's name. Doctors say old mementos calm him. I wanted to hang Father's service uniform in his wardrobe so he might sleep better."

No one spoke in the cabin.

Jair held his breath. Everyone knew how much Arden meant to Antone. Arden had died from shrapnel wounds decades ago; Antone had lived to build his empire, and he owed the dead man an unpayable debt.

Antone snapped the dossier shut. He tossed it onto the empty seat beside him and fixed his full attention on Jennie. His eyes searched her, looking for any lie.

"Did Byron know you went to that club alone tonight?" Antone sounded calm, but underlying anger lingered, strong enough to bring down institutions.

Jennie flinched against the leather seat. "He hosted a dinner for Columbia finance interns. He said not to bother him with small domestic matters. If I wanted the key, I had to get it myself."

A tear fell onto her hand, landing on a fresh scratch she had made on her skin before arriving.

Antone let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "The Cannon family is falling apart faster than their balance sheets. A boy playing the part of a patriarch."

He looked toward the front. "Jair."

"Yes, sir."

"Call Commissioner O'Neill directly. Run full compliance raids on every unlicensed venue in the Meatpacking District before dawn. If those two men are still walking Manhattan streets tomorrow, call their family's commercial paper at noon."

"Understood, sir. Starting now."

Jennie lifted her head, eyes wide with alarm.

"Uncle Antone, please... do not use your power over this. If Byron traces this back, or if the media links it to you‑‑"

"Quiet." Antone cut her off. "This is not about you. This is about the honor Arden bought with his life."

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and leaned across the console. The smell of cedar, bergamot and faint tobacco surrounded her.

"Dry your face." Antone held the cloth out toward her. "A Turner does not cry for lesser men's amusement."

Jennie reached for the handkerchief. Their skin brushed. A sharp electric jolt passed between them.

Antone's eyes darkened for a split second. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips, then to the pulse beating in her throat. The line between guardian and the man was blurring.

He pulled his hand back to his knee and stared out the rain‑wet East Central Park window, forcing himself back under control.

The Maybach slowed outside 820 Fifth Avenue, an exclusive old limestone co‑op. A white‑gloved doorman ran over with a large umbrella and opened the door.

Jennie grabbed her damp wrap and stepped onto the carpeted curb. She turned back to the shadow‑filled car and gave a sad, graceful curtsy.

"Thank you for bringing me home, Uncle Antone. Please drive carefully."

Antone sat half‑hidden in shadow, only the hard line of his jaw visible in the glass. Right before the heavy door slid shut, his voice cut through the rain.

"Nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I will visit Gottlieb at the Long Island estate."

The door slammed shut like a vault.

Jennie stood under the stone awning and watched the Maybach's red taillights merge into uptown traffic and disappear.

The moment the car turned onto 64th Street, all trace of weakness left her. Her back went straight. No more fake tears. She tucked Antone's charcoal handkerchief inside her dress, still warm from his touch.

Tomorrow, the Long Island estate would become the place to break the Cannons' pride. And she had already handed the knife to the most powerful man in the room.