Chapter 8 - MY UNCLE HAD BEEN WAITING FOR MY WEDDING
Peter Hart invited us to dinner.
That alone told me he did not know we suspected him.
Or he was arrogant enough not to care.
We went.
Nico hated it.
“I can send people.”
“No.”
“This isn’t a constitutional law seminar, Evelyn.”
“Good. Those are less dramatic.”
He stared.
“You enjoy irritating me.”
“More every day.”
That earned the smallest smile.
Dangerous again.
Peter lived on the Upper East Side.
Old money apartment.
Family photographs.
My mother everywhere.
He kissed my forehead.
“Married life suits you.”
“I’ve had four days.”
“Sometimes you know immediately.”
I looked at Nico.
He looked back.
Neither of us commented.
Dinner was perfect.
Too perfect.
Then Peter poured wine.
I declined.
He noticed.
“Pregnant already?”
I nearly choked.
“No.”
Nico’s eyes sharpened.
Peter laughed.
“Relax.”
But he had planted something.
Marriage.
Pregnancy.
Succession.
Why?
I asked:
“When does my trust vest?”
His fork stopped.
“Twenty-five.”
“Specific date?”
“Your birthday.”
Lie.
Clear.
I smiled.
“Good.”
Then Nico said:
“Eleanor’s trust has unusual provisions.”
Peter looked at him.
“What provisions?”
Interesting.
He did not know how much we knew.
Nico leaned back.
“Nothing important.”
Peter changed subjects.
After dinner, I asked to use my mother’s old bathroom.
Peter still kept her childhood photographs in the hallway.
Sentimental.
Or theatrical.
I slipped into his study.
Thirty seconds.
That was all I needed.
Desk locked.
Cabinet locked.
But law students learn things rich men forget.
Never leave the key in the adjacent drawer.
Inside the desk:
Trust summaries.
Board control charts.
Andrew Mercer correspondence.
Then one document made my pulse stop.
MARRIAGE ACTIVATION — CONFIRMED.
Dated our wedding day.
Under it:
PHASE TWO: CARUSO REMOVAL.
Nico was next.
I photographed it.
Then heard footsteps.
Peter entered.
He saw me beside the desk.
For one second, his face emptied.
Then:
“Looking for something?”
I smiled.
“Bathroom.”
“In my desk?”
“Terrible architect.”
His eyes went to my phone.
I slipped it into my dress pocket.
“Evie.”
“Don’t.”
He closed the door.
My pulse accelerated.
“Nico knows where I am.”
“Yes.”
Peter smiled.
“That is why he is currently unconscious.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What?”
“The wine.”
Nico had drunk one glass.
I had not.
Peter continued:
“Nothing lethal.”
I moved toward the door.
He blocked it.
“You should be grateful.”
“For drugging my husband?”
“For giving you a husband who activates the trust.”
There it was.
“What do you want?”
“Control.”
At least one man finally used the correct word.
“When the trust activates fully next week, you hold combined voting authority over assets worth almost two billion dollars.”
I stared.
“And you administer my shares until twenty-five.”
“Unless your spouse is incapacitated.”
Cold spread through me.
“If Nico is incapacitated, who controls the spousal acknowledgment?”
“Your trustee.”
Peter.
He had needed me married.
Then needed Nico unable to act.
“Why not kill him?”
Peter smiled.
“Because Carusos respond badly to funerals.”
Smart.
Then another voice came from the hallway.
“You’re right.”
Peter froze.
Nico stood in the doorway.
Pale.
Angry.
Very awake.
“I didn’t drink the wine.”
Peter’s face collapsed.
Nico looked at me.
“You switched the glasses.”
I smiled.
“I suspected something.”
He almost laughed.
Then armed Caruso guards entered behind him.
Peter raised his hands.
But he was still smiling.
“You think this ends with me?”
“No.”
I was getting tired of that sentence.
Peter nodded toward my phone.
“Read the document again.”
I did.
At the bottom:
FINAL AUTHORITY REQUIRES BIRTH CERTIFICATE VERIFICATION.
My stomach tightened.
“Whose birth certificate?”
Peter looked at me.
“Yours.”
May you like
Then he smiled.
“Because James Hart is not your father.”
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