“And now, all of their assets—their shell corporations, their private port authorities in Baltimore and Norfolk, their shipping licenses—are sitting in federal receivership, waiting for probate reallocation.”
I looked at the tablet.Then I looked at the girl I had raised.
“Who are you working with, Chloe?”
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
A soft knock sounded at the heavy door.
It didn’t rattle.It didn’t force itself open.
The latch clicked smoothly, and a man stepped into Room 904.
He wore a tailored charcoal-gray suit, a dark silk tie, and a camel-hair coat draped over his arm.He was sixty, with silver hair combed neatly back from a broad, tanned forehead, and a pair of rimless spectacles resting on a straight, patrician nose.
In his left hand, he carried a leather briefcase.
“Good evening, Samantha,” he said, his voice rich, calm, carrying the faint, aristocratic drawl of old Virginia money.
