Chapter 5 - Blood and Freight
The takeover was swift, brutal, and complete.
By noon, Charles Whitmore had been escorted off the premises by federal marshals. Rebecca and her daughters were forced to leave the estate after Dominic’s legal team presented a court injunction freezing all joint bank accounts pending an investigation into embezzled estate funds.
Claire sat in the corner office on the top floor—the office that had belonged to Charles hours earlier.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the Baltimore harbor, where massive cargo ships glided through the grey waters. It was the view her mother had loved.
A soft knock sounded at the open door.
Dominic walked in, carrying two crystal glasses and a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch. He set them down on the glass coffee table and poured two fingers into each glass.
"You handled yourself well," Dominic said, handing her a glass.
"I didn't feel well," Claire admitted, taking a sip. The amber liquid burned pleasantly down her throat. "My hands were shaking under the table."
"No one saw," Dominic replied, sitting on the leather sofa opposite her. "That's all that matters in this business. Control."
Claire looked at him over the rim of her glass. "What happens to Charles now?"
"He’ll be indicted on federal tax fraud, wire fraud, and grand larceny within forty-eight hours," Dominic said bluntly. "He'll post bail using what little equity he has left in his personal properties, but he's finished. In this city, once you lose your reputation and your money, you become invisible."
Claire lowered her eyes. "He was my father, Dominic. Even when he hated me... I kept hoping that if I just worked hard enough, if I solved enough problems, he would eventually look at me and be proud."
Dominic's expression softened slightly—a rare, barely perceptible shift in his rigid posture.
"Some men are born with empty souls, Claire," Dominic said softly. "They see everything—including their own children—as tools to be used or obstacles to be removed. You couldn't fix him because he was never whole to begin with."
Before Claire could answer, her phone rang.
It was Martha Doyle.
Claire answered immediately. "Martha? Is everything okay?"
"Claire..." Martha's voice was gasping, panicked, filled with the static of wind. "You need to come to the estate. Right now."
Claire stood up, her pulse spiking. "What's happening?"
"Charles came back," Martha sobbed over the phone. "He came through the service entrance. He was raving mad, Claire. He went to the old boathouse... he had a gasoline can. He’s burning it! He’s burning your mother's things!"
"I'm on my way," Claire said.
"Wait!" Dominic commanded, standing up instantly. "Claire, stop."
He reached out and grabbed her wrist—not roughly, but with absolute authority.
"He's desperate," Dominic said, his gray eyes darkening with immediate threat. "A man with nothing left to lose is dangerous. You are not going there alone."
"My mother's letter is in that boathouse!" Claire yelled, her composure cracking for the first time. "It’s the only thing she left for me! The only truth I have left!"
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Dominic didn't argue. He pulled his coat from the chair, pulled a custom semi-automatic pistol from a concealed holster beneath his desk, checked the chamber with a sharp clack, and slung it into his jacket.
"Then we go together," Dominic said. "And we finish this."
