Chapter 12 - THE MAN ABOVE THE COLLECTOR
The chapel doors opened.
Nobody entered.
Outside sat a black sedan.
Engine running.
Driver’s door open.
On the hood lay a white lily brooch.
Black enamel.
Laurel stared.
“My father’s mark.”
Paul shook his head.
“No.”
Anthony turned.
“What?”
“Julian didn’t create that symbol.”
Laurel frowned.
“Then who did?”
Paul looked at Evan.
Then Nathan.
Then Anthony.
“Dominic.”
Silence.
Anthony felt tired of his father returning from the grave.
Paul continued.
“The white lily meant family.”
“And the black ring?”
Anthony already feared the answer.
Paul looked at him.
“Containment.”
“Meaning?”
“If someone inside the family threatened the structure, Dominic marked them.”
Laurel stared at Marcia’s brooch in memory.
“Why did Julian use it?”
“He stole the symbol.”
Julian had turned Dominic’s mark into his own reputation.
A mockery.
A warning.
The black sedan’s radio suddenly switched on.
A voice came through the open windows.
Distorted.
“Anthony.”
No one moved.
“You found Michael’s son.”
Anthony walked closer.
“Who are you?”
The voice ignored him.
“Joseph was useful because he believed chaos made him free.”
Anthony looked at Paul.
Paul’s face had drained.
“He was never free.”
The voice continued.
“Dominic was useful because he believed family justified everything.”
Anthony’s fists tightened.
“You knew my father.”
A quiet laugh.
“Better than you.”
“Name.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
“Names are for men who need statues.”
Anthony stared at the empty driver’s seat.
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“Then come get me.”
“No.”
The voice softened.
“I already did.”
Anthony felt Laurel move closer.
“What does that mean?”
“You married Julian Vale’s daughter.”
Anthony looked at Laurel.
“You brought Michael’s son into the open.”
Evan stiffened.
“You forced Joseph to reveal himself.”
Nathan glanced toward Anthony.
“And you turned Nathan against both his fathers.”
The voice sounded almost pleased.
“You have done more in two weeks than I accomplished in ten years.”
Anthony finally understood.
Someone had used Joseph.
Used the Collector.
Used the old family secrets.
Not necessarily to destroy Anthony.
To make him gather every surviving piece.
Laurel whispered, “We brought them all together.”
“Yes,” the voice said.
She froze.
The speaker could hear them.
Microphone.
Anthony's men began searching.
The voice continued.
“Julian. Joseph. Paul. Samuel. Michael’s son. Joseph’s son. Marcia.”
Anthony looked around.
“Where is Julian?”
Nobody knew.
He had not come to the chapel.
Anthony called.
No answer.
Laurel's face changed.
“My father.”
The voice spoke again.
“Go home.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“Your table is waiting.”
The radio died.
Anthony drove back to the estate at impossible speed.
Laurel beside him.
Nathan and Evan behind.
When they arrived, the gates were open.
No guards visible.
Anthony drew his weapon.
Inside the dining room, every chair was occupied.
Marcia.
Claire.
Samuel.
Julian.
Helen.
Diane Hale.
Preston.
Even Frederick.
All alive.
All silent.
All watched by Anthony’s own bodyguards.
At the head of the table sat Joseph.
Bandaged shoulder.
Smiling.
Anthony entered.
“What is this?”
Joseph looked almost amused.
“Not mine.”
Anthony scanned the room.
Laurel ran to Helen.
Julian stood.
Anthony looked at his bodyguards.
“Who ordered this?”
His captain answered.
“You did.”
Anthony stared.
“No.”
The captain removed a phone.
A voice recording.
Anthony’s voice.
Perfect.
“Bring everyone to the dining room. No one leaves.”
Anthony listened.
It sounded like him.
Not similar.
Him.
Someone had been recording him for years.
Building his voice.
Learning his rhythms.
Joseph laughed softly.
“You see?”
Anthony looked at him.
Joseph continued.
“I was never the top of anything.”
For the first time, Anthony saw fear beneath Joseph’s arrogance.
“Who is?”
Joseph shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Nathan stared at his father.
“You expect us to believe that?”
“I spent thirty years trying to find out.”
Paul looked at Joseph.
“You told me you built the Collector.”
“I built one layer.”
Anthony felt cold.
Dominic had a layer.
Joseph another.
Someone older.
Someone patient.
Someone who survived every family war by letting other men believe they were responsible.
The lights dimmed.
The chandelier remained on.
Every door locked automatically.
A screen at the far end of the dining room turned on.
No face.
Only a black background.
Then a white lily surrounded by black.
A voice filled the room.
Clear this time.
No distortion.
An older man.
“Good evening, family.”
Marcia stood.
She knew the voice.
Anthony saw it.
“Who?”
May you like
Marcia whispered:
“Father.”
