Chapter 3
We closed the club.
Immediately.
Members complained.
Good.
Anyone whose evening collapsed because champagne service stopped could survive.
I moved Arthur and Maeve into the bakery lounge with food and privacy.
Then I returned to the management office.
Dominic sat across from me.
Badge removed.
His jacket changed.
Confidence not.
“Tell me about the Founders’ Circle.”
He shrugged.
“Just a name.”
“Then naming the members should be easy.”
Silence.
I waited.
Dominic finally listed seven.
Three were club members.
Two were senior vendors.
One former Castellano accountant.
And one name that made me stop.
Sebastian Castellano.
My older brother.
Dead nine years.
I looked at Dominic.
“Try again.”
“That’s the name on the original charter.”
“There is no charter.”
His eyes shifted.
Good.
“Show me.”
A minute later, he produced a leather folder from the locked cabinet behind his desk.
Inside:
A printed document declaring the Founders’ Circle the historical governing authority of Castellano Club.
Ridiculous.
The club was founded by me.
Not my father.
Not Sebastian.
Me.
I had opened it at twenty-five using one warehouse, two investors, and money I never again intended to count in public.
Yet the document claimed Sebastian established a “silent supervisory circle” before my ownership became public.
Elegant lie.
Hard to disprove if enough older people nodded.
“How long have you used this?”
“Two years.”
“Who wrote it?”
Dominic said nothing.
I looked closer.
The language bothered me.
Not modern.
It imitated my father’s old family correspondence.
Someone knew our history well.
Too well.
Then I noticed the seal.
Castellano crest.
Correct except for one detail.
The wolf faced right.
Our seal had faced left since my grandfather changed it after the 1961 split.
Only older pre-1961 documents used the right-facing wolf.
Someone had copied an antique source.
Not invented casually.
I looked at Dominic.
“Where did you get the seal?”
His confidence finally cracked.
“From Aunt Sofia’s storage.”
My sister Sofia.
Dead twelve years.
Her estate had been cleared by one person.
Her widower.
Victor Dain.
Still alive.
Still invited to my Christmas dinner.
I leaned back.
May you like
Dominic had not created fake authority.
He had inherited a forgery from someone old enough to know which dead relatives nobody would question.
