Chapter 13 #2
Max points toward the bar. Alistair is standing toe-to-toe with Archbishop O’Malley, a man in a full clerical collar and a red sash. Alistair is holding a wad of cash. The Archbishop is holding a racing form.
“They are betting on the ice sculpture,” Jax explains. “Alistair took the under on the wings melting. The Archbishop is doubling down on structural failure. For a man of God, he has a very aggressive betting strategy.”
“The Church has been liquid for two thousand years, Jax,” I note. “You don’t get that kind of capital by playing it safe.”
“Speaking of unsafe,” Jax nods toward the centre of the room. “High-value targets at twelve o’clock. The Matriarch. And she’s with Vane.”
I freeze. I follow his gaze.
Standing next to my mother is a man who looks like a walrus stuffed into a tuxedo.
Harrison Vane Sr. The shipping magnate. The man who tried to donate rusty steel to the hospital.
And, more importantly, the father of Harrison Vane Jr.—the cape-wearing, ascot-loving nightmare my mother threatened to seat me next to at Easter.
“Vane,” I hiss. “The father of the Cape Boy.”
“Cape Boy?” Luke asks.
“Harrison Junior,” I explain grimly. “Mother tried to set me up with him. He collects antique canes and thinks the gold standard should be reinstated. He is my nemesis.”
“And his father is a shark,” Max warns. “Be careful. He’s looking for blood.”
We move as a phalanx toward the main circle.
“Maxwell, Preston,” Catherine says as we approach. She looks at Jax’s boots and sighs—a sound of pure defeat. Then she looks at Luke’s velvet. She blinks. “Blue. I said Black Tie. Not… Moulin Rouge.”
“It absorbs light, Mother,” I say. “It’s stealth technology.”
“It’s a fire hazard,” Alistair booms happily, joining us. The Archbishop trails behind him, tucking a stack of hundred-dollar bills into his sash. “Silva! You look like a Bond villain. I love it. Tell me, do you have a white cat?”
“No, sir,” Luke says.
“Pity. Harrison, look at this. This is the boy Preston dragged in from the wild.”
Harrison Vane Sr. turns. He has a face like a slab of cured ham. He sneers at Luke.
“The scholarship hire,” Vane booms. His voice carries. “Alistair tells me you’re letting the staff mingle with the donors tonight. Very progressive. I suppose someone has to be around to clean up if a glass breaks.”
The air leaves the group. Jax stiffens, his weight shifting forward into a fighting stance. Max’s jaw tightens.
I decide to execute a preemptive strike.
“Mr. Vane,” I say, stepping into the kill box. “So good to see you. I assume Harrison Junior isn't joining us? Or did he get his cape caught in a revolving door again?”
Vane’s eyes narrow. “My son is at a retreat in the Alps.”
“Of course,” I smile. “But I was actually hoping to speak to you. I was reading the audit regarding your surgical steel donation this morning. Did it rust, Max? Or did it melt?”
Max steps up instantly, reading my play. “It was catastrophic,” Max lies smoothly. “Grade-D alloy. We tried to perform a valve repair and the retractor turned into a soup spoon. A tragedy.”
“A soup spoon!” Alistair shouts, delighted to join the skirmish line. “It de-magnetized my credit cards!”
“That is slander!” Vane sputters. “My steel is top tier!”
“It’s intel,” Jax adds, crossing his arms and looking menacing. “We had to call the EPA. Something about radioactive isotopes? I think I saw a Geiger counter go off in the supply closet.”
“Radioactive?” Catherine gasps, clutching her pearls. “In my hospital? Harrison, explain yourself.”
“It is a sin to cut corners on charity, Harrison,” the Archbishop chimes in, shaking his head gravely. “The Lord sees all. And so does the IRS.”
“You literally just bet me five hundred dollars the sculpture would collapse!” Alistair argues.
“That is physics, Alistair,” the Archbishop corrects smoothly. “This is fraud. There is a distinction in the catechism.”
Vane turns purple. He realizes he is outgunned by medicine, money, and God. He flees the area of operations, knocking over a waiter on his way to the bar.
I turn to Luke, checking my cuffs. “Asymmetric warfare,” I explain. “Jax calls it ‘shaping the battlespace.’ You don’t wait for the enemy to dig in; you neutralize the threat with overwhelming force.”
“Textbook ambush,” Jax nods approvingly. “Good kill, Preston.”
“You people are maniacs,” Luke whispers, staring at us with adoration.
“He’s a York,” a cool voice interrupts. “It’s genetic.”
Cousin Sloane appears from the shadows. She is wearing a black tuxedo jumpsuit and eating a crab cake with lethal precision. Sloane Kensington. My mother’s sister’s daughter.
“Sloane,” I say. “My favourite psy-ops specialist.”
“Visual on the target fleeing,” Sloane notes, gesturing with her crab cake toward Vane’s retreating back. “Sloppy retreat, but effective. I see the Church provided spiritual covering fire?”
“I merely reminded him of the commandments,” the Archbishop says innocently, checking his racing form. “And the tax code.”
“Excellent synergy,” Sloane nods. “While you were handling the ground war, I took the liberty of calling our friends in St. Petersburg.”
Luke blinks. “St. Petersburg? Like… Florida?”
Sloane stares at him over the rim of her glasses.
“No, Dr. Silva. St. Petersburg, Russia. I activated the bots. Vane Shipping is currently trending alongside ‘Toxic Waste Dumping’ on three continents.”
Luke looks horrified. “You used… Russian bots? To tank a stock? Because he insulted me?”
“I used them because they were available,” Sloane shrugs. “And because the server farm owes me a favour from the last election cycle. Don't look so concerned, Doctor. It’s just ones and zeros. And petty revenge.”
“Who is she?” Luke whispers to me, terrified.
“Sloane Kensington,” I explain. “My cousin. She handles Crisis Management for the entire extended family. Do not ask about the server farm. Plausible deniability is the only thing keeping us out of federal prison.”
“I prefer ‘Strategic Communications,’” Sloane corrects. “Speaking of strategic failures… look who just breached the perimeter.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
Walking toward us is the other York faction. The Rival Court.
Leading the charge is Uncle Frederick—Alistair’s older, richer, meaner brother. He is flanked by a woman in emerald green silk who is holding two martinis, and Cousin Tripp, who is wearing Google Glass.
“Here we go,” Max sighs. “Defcon 1.”
“Frederick,” Alistair says. The joviality vanishes. “I see you’re still wearing that girdle.”
“It is core support,” Frederick snaps. “And I see you’re drinking antifreeze. How is your portfolio, Alistair? Still heavy in ‘whimsy’?”
“My portfolio is diversified,” Alistair growls. “Unlike your gene pool.”
My mother, Catherine, steps forward. But she isn't looking at Alistair. She is looking at the woman in emerald green.
“Meredith,” Catherine says. Her voice is ice.
Aunt Meredith Kensington. My mother’s younger, wilder sister. Sloane’s mother. The only person on earth who can make Catherine York look insecure.
“Catherine,” Aunt Meredith replies, swaying slightly. “You look… tight, darling. Is that a new facelift, or just the stress of being married to a man who looks like a parade float?”
“I am not a float!” Alistair shouts. “I am robust!”
“You’re swollen,” Frederick corrects. He kisses Catherine’s cheek. “Catherine, you look radiant. How you survive these people is a mystery. You should come to the island. No people. No noise. Just liquidity.”
“Take me,” Catherine sighs, linking her arm through Frederick’s. “I need an exit strategy. Meredith is already drunk.”
“I am not drunk,” Meredith slurs, draining one of her martinis. “I am enhanced. And at least I have husbands, darling. You’ve been stuck with the same loud furniture for forty years.” She gestures vaguely at Alistair.
“I am not furniture!” Alistair shouts. “I am the Patriarch!”
“You’re a lamp,” Meredith dismisses him. “A very loud, blue lamp.”
She turns to the Archbishop.
“Hello, Your Eminence,” she purrs. “Still wearing that dress? It’s very slimming. Care to arm wrestle for my soul? I think I have a few chips left.”
The Archbishop sighs, but he rolls up his sleeve. “Meredith, you owe the Vatican three hundred dollars from Christmas. But I accept the challenge.”
Sloane sighs. “Mother, stop harassing the clergy. It’s billable hours.”
Meredith ignores her. She turns to Luke.
“And who is this pretty thing?” she coos. “Are you the new pool boy? You have excellent deltoids. Very structural.”
“He is the Chief Resident at St. Jude’s Medical Centre, Aunt Meredith,” I snap, stepping between them to provide cover.
“A physician?” Meredith laughs. “Even better. Can you fix a liver? I think mine is resigning.”
Cousin Tripp steps forward. He is Frederick’s son, and the family disappointment. He taps his smart glasses and locks onto Luke.
“Bio-metrics are insane,” Tripp mutters. “Symmetry is 99th percentile. Who is this asset?”
“I am Dr. Silva,” Luke says.
“Doctor,” Tripp sneers. “How… analog. I’m launching a startup. It’s Uber for organs. Surge pricing on kidneys. We use the blockchain to verify donor status.”
He thrusts his tattooed wrist at Luke.
“Scan my QR code. Get in on the ground floor.”
Jax steps in. He puts a heavy hand on Tripp’s shoulder. Use of force authorized.
“Tripp,” Jax says pleasantly. “If you ask him to scan your arm, I’m going to assume you’re checking into the Trauma ward. And I’m on duty.”
Tripp recoils. “Aggressive. Low vibration energy. I’m going to go network with the valet.”
He wanders off.
“I hate him,” Max sighs. “He tried to sell me an NFT of a gallstone last Christmas.”
“Focus, Maxwell,” Sloane says. “The nuclear launch codes are being entered.”
She’s right. Frederick is whispering in Catherine’s ear. Alistair is turning purple. Meredith is currently losing an arm-wrestling match to the Archbishop on a waiter's tray.