Chapter 2: The Card in My Hand
The inside of the Rolls Royce smelled like new leather and old money. Rain streaked the tinted windows, turning the city lights into long blurry streaks. I sat in the back seat alone at first, the black card still warm between my fingers. I turned it over once, twice. The embossed symbol was the same one I remembered from childhood: a stylized raven with wings spread wide, holding a key in its beak. Simple. Deadly serious.
The butler—his name was Harlan, he'd told me quietly when we pulled away from the gate—sat up front with the driver. He hadn't said much after the initial words. Just enough to let me know this wasn't a dream or some cruel joke.
I leaned my head back against the seat. My wet shirt stuck to my skin, cold now instead of clammy. The heater hummed softly, but it didn't touch the chill deeper inside me.
Victoria's voice kept replaying in my head. "A burden. A weight I carried out of pity." The way she'd looked at me, like I was already gone. Like I'd never mattered.
I closed my eyes. Tried to push it down. Didn't work.
The car glided through the city without hurry. We left the bright lights of the gala district behind and slipped into quieter streets, then onto the highway heading north. I didn't ask where we were going. I already knew.
After maybe thirty minutes Harlan turned in his seat. His face was lined but calm, the kind of calm that comes from seeing too many things and still showing up every day.
"You kept the card all these years," he said. Not a question.
I opened my eyes. "It was in the safe deposit box. The one you set up when I left."
He nodded once. "Your grandfather insisted. Said you'd need it one day. Even if you didn't want to believe it."
I looked down at the card again. "I didn't want any of it. That's why I walked away."
"And yet here we are."
Here we were.
The car slowed as we turned off the highway onto a private road lined with tall pines. No signs. No lights except the ones on the car. The gates opened automatically when we approached—smooth, silent, like they'd been waiting.
We pulled up to a house that wasn't really a house. More like a fortress disguised as modern architecture. Glass walls, dark steel, lights buried in the ground so the place glowed without trying too hard. I'd been here once before, ten years ago, the night I told my grandfather I was done.
Harlan opened my door. I stepped out. The rain had eased to a drizzle. My shoes squelched on the stone driveway.
Inside, the foyer was quiet. Marble floors again, but warmer somehow. A woman in a neat gray uniform waited with a towel and a robe.
"Mr. Black," she said softly. "Your room is prepared. Dry clothes as well."
I took the towel. Wiped my face. "Thank you."
She led me upstairs without another word. The hallway was long, lined with doors that didn't look like they opened often. My room—my old room—was at the end. Same view of the city skyline in the distance. Same king bed that always felt too big.
I changed into the clothes laid out on the chair. Dark slacks, white shirt, cashmere sweater. Everything my size. Everything waiting.
When I came back downstairs Harlan was in the study. Fire going in the fireplace. Two glasses of something amber on the table.
He gestured to the chair opposite him.
I sat.
He pushed one glass toward me. "Your grandfather's favorite scotch. He kept a bottle here for the day you returned."
I picked it up. Swirled it. Didn't drink yet.
"How long have you been waiting?" I asked.
"Ten years, three months, seventeen days." He said it without checking a watch. "Give or take."
I let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh. "That precise?"
"Some things you count carefully."
I took a sip. The burn was familiar. Smooth. Expensive.
Harlan leaned forward slightly. "The Consortium is stable. Profitable. Larger than when you left. But there are… pressures. Old rivals sniffing around. New players who don't remember why the Black name used to mean something."
I met his eyes. "And they think I'm still gone."
"They think you're dead. Or irrelevant. Your grandfather made sure of that."
I set the glass down. "He faked my death?"
"In a manner of speaking. Enough to keep you safe. Enough to let you live the life you chose."
The life I chose. Five years of scrubbing floors. Five years of swallowing insults. Five years of watching the woman I loved turn into someone who looked at me like I was dirt.
I stared into the fire. "She cheated on me. For months. Maybe longer. And her family knew. They helped cover it."
Harlan didn't flinch. "I'm aware."
"They framed me for stealing from them. Years ago. Small amounts at first. Enough to make it look like I was desperate."
"I know."
I looked at him. "You've been watching."
"We've been protecting. From a distance."
Anger bubbled up, slow and hot. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind that settles in your bones.
"I don't want their money," I said. "I don't want revenge for revenge's sake."
Harlan nodded. "Understood."
"But I want them to understand what they threw away. What they tried to break."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim folder. Placed it on the table between us.
"Everything you need to start," he said. "Accounts. Access codes. Names of people who still answer to the Black name. And a list of the Harrington Group's most pressing vulnerabilities. Current as of this morning."
I didn't touch the folder yet.
He stood. "The rest of the night is yours. Sleep if you can. Tomorrow we begin."
He walked to the door, paused. "One more thing, sir."
I looked up.
"Your grandfather's last words to me, before he passed. He said, 'When he comes back, remind him he's not coming back to beg. He's coming back to collect.'"
Harlan gave a small bow and left.
I sat there a long time after he was gone. The fire crackled. The scotch sat untouched now.
I finally picked up the folder. Opened it.
Numbers. Names. Dates. Proof.
I closed it again.
Outside the window the city sparkled like it always had. Indifferent. Bright.
But tonight it looked different.
Smaller.
I stood up, walked to the glass, pressed my palm against it.
Cold.
Tomorrow I'd start collecting.
And the Harringtons would learn exactly how much a burden could cost.