Chapter 4 - The Locked Study
The next morning, the Weller mansion was buzzing with frantic energy as moving vans began lining the circular driveway.
Marlene had already hired an estate appraisal company to catalog the antique furniture, silver plate, and oil paintings.
Hannah walked down the back stairs carrying her single duffel bag, dressed in clean jeans and an oversized navy knit sweater.
She paused on the second-floor landing, noticing the heavy oak door to her grandfather’s private study standing open for the first time in weeks.
Inside, Bram was rummaging through the drawers of Edmund’s mahogany roll-top desk, tossing papers onto the floor.
Marlene stood by the safe behind the naval portrait, holding the brass key ring she had taken from Edmund’s bedside table.
"Where is the secondary ledger, Bram?" Marlene hissed, her voice sharp with rising panic.
"The lawyer said the deed to the downtown commercial warehouses was supposed to be in the iron box."
"It's not here, Ma!" Bram yelled back, kicking a stack of old leather-bound books across the Persian rug.
"The safe only has his medals, some worthless silver coins, and a stack of old war letters!"
Hannah stepped into the doorway, her grip tightening on the strap of her duffel bag.
"You shouldn't be in here," Hannah said, her voice trembling slightly with outrage.
"The attorney hasn't read the will yet. Grandfather explicitly asked for this room to remain locked until Friday."
Marlene spun around, her face twisting into an ugly sneer as she took in Hannah’s presence.
"This is my father's house, you insolent little leech," Marlene spat, marching toward her with venomous fury.
"I don't need permission from a paid nurse to inspect my own inheritance."
"I wasn't a paid nurse, Aunt Marlene," Hannah countered, standing her ground in the archway.
"I was his family. And you didn't even visit him on his eighty-fifth birthday because you were on a cruise in Cabo."
Bram laughed, stepping around the desk, holding up a tarnished silver medal with a frayed blue ribbon.
"Look at this junk," Bram scoffed, tossing the Distinguished Flying Cross into the trash can by the window.
"The old man was completely senile for five years. He didn't even know what day it was."
Something inside Hannah snapped; the quiet, submissive girl who had carried her plate into the hallway vanished entirely.
She lunged forward, reached into the trash bin, and snatched her grandfather's medal out of the wastepaper.
She clutched the cold metal against her chest, her knuckles turning bone-white.
"Don't you dare touch his service medals, Bram," Hannah whispered, her voice shaking with pure, unadulterated fury.
Bram stepped closer, raising his hand aggressively toward her shoulder. "Give that back, you little—"
"Take one more step, son," a low, chilling voice echoed from the study doorway.
Bram froze, his arm lingering mid-air as if he had just touched a high-voltage wire.
Standing in the frame was Marco, Rocco Ferrante’s lead security lieutenant, his dark coat open to reveal the holster beneath.
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"Mr. Ferrante requested that this room remain sealed under legal escrow," Marco said with clinical detachment.
"Step away from the desk, Mr. Weller. Before I remove your hand from your wrist."
