Chapter 4 - The Third Floor Sanctuary
The private library on the third floor of the Blackwood estate was a cavernous world removed from the noise and violence of the lower levels.
Thousands of leather-bound volumes lined the mahogany walls from floor to vaulted ceiling, smelling of old paper, aged oak, and faint beeswax. A crackling fire danced inside a massive stone hearth, casting a warm, amber glow across the Persian rugs and the deep velvet armchairs.
Ivy stood near the center of the room, her duffel bag resting on the floor beside her. She wore a clean, oversized sweater she had retrieved from her locker downstairs, the bandage on her shoulder safely hidden beneath soft wool.
She walked over to the tall arched window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtain to look out at the rain-swept gardens below.
Her mind was spinning.
For eight months, she had existed in the periphery of Ronan Blackwood’s sprawling criminal empire—a face in the background, an invisible hand serving coffee during late-night cartel negotiations and political backroom deals. She had watched him rule his associates with an iron fist, utterly devoid of mercy, feared by every magistrate and mob boss from Boston to Miami.
Yet tonight, he had thrown away a high-society marriage alliance worth hundreds of millions of dollars over a bloody navy uniform and a spilled bowl of soup.
It wasn't about the soup, Ivy thought, tracing the cool glass of the windowpane with her finger. It was about control.
A soft knock echoed through the suite’s private antechamber.
Ivy turned quickly. “Come in.”
The heavy oak door swung open, and Vance stepped inside, holding a small silver tray bearing a steaming porcelain teapot and a stack of crisp, cream-colored manila folders. His stern, battle-scarred face softened into something resembling professional respect as he set the tray down on the mahogany writing desk.
“Evening, Miss Lancaster,” Vance said, his voice deep and gravelly. “The boss asked me to bring up some reading material for you before tomorrow morning.”
Ivy walked over to the desk, eyeing the folders cautiously. “What are these, Vance?”
“Insurance policies, corporate restructuring documents, and a complete financial audit of the Hale family trusts,” Vance replied casually, pulling a chair out and sitting down. “Mr. Blackwood wanted you to review them. Specifically the sections regarding the shipping port acquisitions in South Jersey.”
Ivy stared at him, bewildered. “Why would I review corporate audit files? I manage the pantry inventory and oversee the downstairs catering staff.”
Vance offered a dry, knowing smirk. “Not anymore, you don't. Mr. Blackwood made it clear about an hour ago that the domestic staff is being reorganized. Effective tomorrow, you’re stepping into the role of Chief Operations Liaison for Blackwood Enterprises. Which means you’ll be sitting across the table from corporate executives instead of serving them tea.”
Ivy stepped back, her breath catching in her throat. “Chief Operations Liaison? Vance, I didn't graduate from college with a business degree! I spent the last five years working three jobs to pay off my father’s medical debts and keep my younger brothers in school!”
“And in doing so, you managed to secretly audit three different local supply chains, expose embezzlement in our catering contractor’s accounts last month without anyone noticing, and accurately predict the dock strike in Baltimore before my own intelligence team did,” Vance countered smoothly, leaning forward. “The boss doesn't care about degrees on a wall, Miss Lancaster. He cares about competence. And you’re the most competent person in this house.”
May you like
Vance stood up, nodding respectfully before turning toward the door.
“Get some rest,” he added over his shoulder. “Tomorrow is going to be a very long, very loud day when the newspapers find out why Vivienne Hale was thrown out in the rain.”
