Chapter 17 - Shadows of the Past
The peace we had fought so hard to secure was tested on a rainy Tuesday evening three weeks later. I was working late in my home study, reviewing structural blueprints for a new youth center expansion funded by the foundation, when my secure encrypted phone buzzed sharply against the mahogany desk. I picked it up, glancing at the caller ID. It was a restricted secure line connected directly to federal corrections.
"Vance," I answered, my voice dropping into a cool, guarded register.
"Mr. Vance, this is Warden Miller at the federal penitentiary," a tense voice crackled through the speaker. "I'm calling regarding Marcus Vance and Viktor Rostov. We have a situation in maximum security."
My posture stiffened instantly, every instinct honed from years of syndicate wars flaring back to life. "What kind of situation?"
"An hour ago during recreation yard transfer, there was an altercation," the warden explained quickly. "Marcus attempted to recant his grand jury testimony in exchange for protective custody, but Rostov’s remaining loyalists intercepted him. Marcus didn't survive the incident. Rostov is currently isolated in solitary confinement, but before we secured him, he left a message specifically for you."
I gripped the edge of the desk so hard the polished wood groaned under my fingers. "What message?"
"He said tell the king his crown is still made of glass, and the storm hasn't reached its peak yet," the warden recited grimly.
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I let out a cold, humorless laugh, the lingering shadows of my past attempting one final, pathetic grasp at intimidation. Rostov was locked behind five-inch-thick steel doors in a max-security hole halfway across the country; he was a ghost rattling chains he could no longer lift. "He's howling in the dark, Warden. Keep him locked down, and make sure my security detail is notified of any prison communications. I want a full transcript of his visitors by morning."
I hung up the phone and sat back in my leather chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. The temptation to revert to my old habits—to hunt down every remaining associate of Rostov’s and crush them preemptively—flared in my chest. But as I looked across the room at a framed photograph of Norah smiling on the Oakhaven coast, the urge vanished. I wasn't that man anymore. I didn't rule through paranoia and preemptive violence. I closed the laptop, locked the study door behind me, and walked upstairs to find the woman who had taught me how to live without looking over my shoulder.
