Chapter 2
ONE MAN’S TRASH (HOLDEN)
The vault under the basement is damn near nuclear grade.
I should know, since I helped hire the crew who did the big renovation the old man wanted years ago. When the lawyer said we were heading downstairs to see this big secret, I knew exactly where.
Leonidas didn’t spare a dollar securing his most priceless possessions, even if I didn’t know what half of them were.
Miss Wilkes goes first, stepping up to the keypad and punching in the code, then leading us through a pair of thick steel doors that automatically slide shut behind us.
Warm lights flicker on as we approach, revealing the earthy, almost Egyptian walls. The place feels like a cave that’s been retrofitted with state-of-the-art security tech.
The place has more bells and whistles than some private banks. Over the years, I’ve checked the systems more times than I can count, going over the access logs, working the cameras, ensuring his very expensive bunker did what he paid for.
Not once did I ask what was shut behind the locked doors.
That was never my business. The old man had his boundaries, and I had mine.
That’s how it’s always been, and I didn’t mind it one bit considering what he paid me. Yeah, we had a good working relationship, but we never forgot who’s boss.
So I left him to his secrets.
I did my job, securing his properties, and making sure no one unauthorized ever stepped foot inside this vault.
Back when he was alive, I never wondered that much. He was rich enough to have earned his secrets. I had my own to deal with, too.
Now, though, I feel the first flicker of wonder.
What did he really go to all this trouble for?
I’ve heard the rumors that dropped since his death. A whole lot of family drama, mostly, with wild betrayals and schemes from the Great Beyond to keep his grandkids happy. Trying to right the wrongs with his estranged daughter, which ate at his soul until the day he died.
Don’t know how much I believe. Never been my place to judge.
In the end, rich folks are like anyone else with their family dealings, and sometimes they get awfully complicated.
I got paid to execute, to protect, and that’s where my part ended.
At least, that’s where it did while he was breathing.
After Leonidas, I thought I’d get a polite pink slip and a generous severance in a matter of weeks.
Only, his estate turned out to be damned complicated. His lawyer kept me on the same impressive salary after his death. Easy work, just walking these halls and occasionally popping into his other properties to help the local managers until they could get sorted with the family or sold.
Just wish he’d warned me how nasty it could get with the old lake house up by Bar Harbor. I didn’t see that one coming. If I had, I could’ve saved poor Margot and her new husband a heap of trouble.
Oh well.
Beyond running on autopilot, though, I never got much hint of what his long-term plans were for me. This job has to end sometime, no matter how much I’ve been quietly dreading it.
When Jackie Wilkes called me in today, I was hoping for answers.
Hell, until I got the call, I just figured he was doing me a favor. Giving me a few months of easy street to get my crap in order so Kit and I weren’t left in the cold and I wouldn’t be staring down the barrel of unemployment.
Decent boss.
Decent man.
Decently tight-lipped about everything.
The fact that I’m standing down here in this chilly, climate-controlled room tells me the rest won’t be so simple.
I can’t fathom why the fuck I need to spend another second with Cleopatra Blackthorn.
Just a courtesy, hopefully. There’s still a chance the lawyer hands me my severance package on the way out.
It would be a little cruel to drag me all the way out here purely to lose my job in front of my daughter, but hell, I’m ready to move on. Also, the lawyer didn’t plan on Kit tagging along.
I’m ready, just as soon as the Nile Queen stops standing there looking flabbergasted and collects her prize. Some things never change.
What little Cleo wants, she gets, unless somebody stops her. She always comes ahead of staff like me.
“Whoa, Dad! This is just like those spy movies.” Kit exhales as we approach the second door of the vault—the one I never went past since the day it was finished.
Cleo looks at us, her full lips curling in a smile. Her cinnamon hair falls over her face with that obnoxious white stripe.
Go ahead and call me old-fashioned. Doesn’t surprise me one bit she’s grown into the punk look.
She’s grown up awfully fast, too, from a sulky girl with bad manners to a young woman who could look presentable—if she wanted.
The hair’s new, I suspect. I want to hate it.
I should hate it.
Nothing about her matches my preferences.
But she always was a little heathen, and I’m no stranger to how the artsy types look here in Portland or other cities.
For what she does, it suits her.
That white streak rips through thick chestnut locks like a shooting star. Pale, fresh face with smooth skin, more mature, the baby fat gone.
Violet-blue eyes like winter twilight.
Stranger than I remember. The purple was just a small hint in the blue field when she was younger, but now it’s bright enough to make a man stop and stare.
She’s dressed like she can’t decide if she’s about to meet with her fellow art snobs in some pretentious coffeehouse or she just wants to rock the raven girl look for a day to pay her dead grandfather some respect.
Short, yet colorful nails that still look weirdly sharp. They’re light blue with vivid pink accents, close to her eyes.
Not what I expected.
Not my concern.
Hell, I was there when she tried painting her nails the first time while Margot and her friend Hattie laughed. Small and sticklike, elbows always scabbed over from falling on hikes, sticking out at odd angles.
The girl was almost bony and coltish before.
Now, you’d never know it behind the subtle curves under that flowing black skirt. I should be grateful it’s not ripped or damnably short.
I’m surprised she’s not wearing makeup to go with those nails.
Those lively eyes dance at Kit.
“You’re right, total movie stuff,” she says. “We’re just waiting for the lasers next.”
“That would be so fire!” Kit laughs.
“Right?”
“Just like a diamond vault.” Kit grins. “Are we gonna go after it like that old guy?”
Cleo’s gaze flicks to me in question.
“Mission Impossible. One of our favorites,” I clip.
“Oh.” Cleo’s laugh fills the chill air. “I guess he is kind of old, huh? You’ve been bringing her up on the classics, Holden. Impressive.”
Classics. Fucking hell.
She wasn’t even born when the first reboot movie came out.
Holy fuck, I feel old when I’m around her.
I drag a hand through my hair.
“Can we move this along?” I snap.
Wilkes fires me a cool glance before placing her thumb in the sensor by the door. It opens with a click and a hiss.
“I need to make sure I’m following protocol,” she says. “You should know that better than anyone, Mr. Verity.”
“Exactly.” Cleo narrows her eyes at me. “I see someone never learned to relax.”
I bite my tongue.
Fine, yeah, I’m being an asshole, but I’m more impatient than usual. This has the uncomfortable distinction of being work and annoyingly personal.
Mainly because the odds of dealing with her keep spiking every minute.
Cleopatra Blackthorn, the art brat. The girl who turned my job into a frustrating chaperone gig in her teenage years.
I can’t decide if she was worse than Ethan—that boy and his shit almost killed me a few times—but I only had to deal with him for a few.
Judging by her attitude, she hasn’t matured all that much.
My blood curdles at the thought of having her in my life again. If old man Blackthorn made that a condition of continued employment, I’ll have to think about it carefully.
Then again, with my parents in the mix, I never need to think hard. Gotta pay the bills somehow when Mom’s incidental costs just keep accelerating. Medicare doesn’t cover enough with aging parents who need mobility specialists and basic memory care.
The small, stale inner chamber looks empty except for a set of drawers. I feel like there should be more in here.
Wilkes punches in a code. The top drawer clicks, unlocking, and she pulls it open.
“This is the only item left in this chamber,” she says. “The remainder of Mr. Blackthorn’s collection was cleared out months ago.” She carefully lifts an elegant red velvet box. “Here, Miss Blackthorn. Please be very careful. It’s delicate.”
The smirk melts off her face.
Cleo looks nervous as she accepts the gift, chewing on her bottom lip. Although she’s dressed like some kind of dark bohemian fairy, she suddenly looks younger, almost back to that kid I remember.
I have a biting urge to tell her it’ll be okay. An old instinct that’s out of place here.
For now, I know better. I keep my yap shut.
She’s a grown woman and it’s her inheritance. Let her deal with it so we can all hopefully walk out of here and move the fuck on.
Still biting that lower lip, she slowly opens the lid.
I could roll my eyes at how dramatic she’s being.
The feeling fades a second later, once I see what’s inside.
An oval object, glinting in the light, almost too magnificent to be real. It’s an orb crusted with jewels that have to be worth many multiples of my lifetime salary.
Jeweled blue and white stripes with gold accents. Not a perfect sphere, more like… an egg?
Yeah.
It’s nestled against the velvet interior like it was laid by a real-life golden goose and gently put away.
Cleo looks up, startled. Her eyes beg Wilkes for answers.
“A treasure from a world-class Russian jeweler, well over a hundred years old. Technically, an understudy of the famous name everyone knows, but I’m confident no one alive today could replicate this beauty.
” Miss Wilkes’ soft voice fills the small room.
“One of several jeweled eggs made for King Constantine I of Greece as an anniversary present from the Russian Tsar. Each one is—”