Chapter 13 - The Kensington Ultimatum
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Peace inside the Vance estate lasted less than three hours.
Just as the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed seven that evening, the heavy oak doors of the mansion were pushed open as three black government SUVs screeched to a halt on the circular gravel driveway outside. From the top of the grand staircase, where I had just finished getting Sophie ready for dinner, I watched Senator Arthur Kensington storm into the foyer flanked by two federal marshals and his personal legal counsel.
At sixty-two, Arthur Kensington looked every inch the ruthless political kingmaker who controlled half of New York’s judiciary and port authorities. His silver hair gleamed under the crystal chandelier as Damon walked calmly out of the library to meet him in the center of the marble hall.
"You have lost your goddamn mind, Damon!" Senator Kensington roared, his voice booming all the way up to the second-floor landing. "Throwing my daughter out onto the street like common trash? Threatening to release doctored security videos after humiliating our family?"
"The video wasn't doctored, Arthur, and you’re trespassing on private property," Damon replied, sliding his hands casually into the pockets of his charcoal trousers. "Your daughter assaulted a three-year-old child and attempted to frame an innocent woman for felony theft. The only reason Camille isn't sitting in a holding cell alongside my former housekeeper tonight is because I decided to give you twenty-four hours to resign from the Harbor Commission quietly."
Kensington’s face turned an ugly shade of purple. He stepped right up into Damon’s personal space, jabbing a thick finger toward his chest.
"You arrogant bastard, you think you're untouchable just because your father left you a fortress of dirty money?" the Senator snarled, lowering his voice to a lethal hiss that still carried up the stairwell. "I made the Vance Shipping Corporation with a stroke of my pen, and I can bury it with another! If you do not publicly apologize to Camille and show up at tomorrow night’s charity gala at the Plaza as her fiancé, I will have Federal Customs seize all fourteen of your cargo vessels at dawn, and I’ll reopen the federal investigation into your father’s offshore accounts!"
On the landing above, I froze as a memory slammed into my mind like a freight train.
The voice.
That raspy, arrogant cadence dropping low on the word bastard—I had heard it once before. Four years ago, three nights before my father-in-law’s limousine was blown up on the Queensboro Bridge, I had been studying late in Damon’s penthouse study while Damon was asleep. Someone had called Damon’s private landline at two in the morning and left a furious voice message threatening to blow the Queensboro shipment sky-high if Richard Vance didn't hand over the port manifests.
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Downstairs, Damon smiled—a cold, razor-sharp expression that promised ruin.
"Seize the ships if you want a war, Arthur," Damon said softly. "And tomorrow night at the Plaza Gala, the whole city is going to hear a very different announcement."
