Chapter 3 - Breakfast with the Devil
The dining room of the Lake Forest mansion was designed for state dinners and political negotiations. A thirty-foot mahogany table sat beneath two massive Baccarat crystal chandeliers, surrounded by tall arched windows that looked out over the terrace and the cold, grey expanse of Lake Michigan.
At seven-forty-five, Arthur Sterling arrived.
He walked in with the smooth, practiced confidence of a man who believed he ran the city. Dressed in a bespoke three-piece pinstripe suit, his silver hair neatly slicked back, carrying a calfskin briefcase, he looked every bit the elder statesman of the Blackwell empire.
"Dominic!" Arthur called out, his voice rich and warm as he walked into the dining room. "When Marco called and said you wanted an early breakfast, I was thrilled! It’s been months since you asked to see me socially. You’re looking stronger, my boy. Your father would be proud."
I was sitting at the head of the long mahogany table, wearing a dark turtleneck and a charcoal blazer, sipping black coffee.
"Sit down, Arthur," I said smoothly, gesturing to the chair on my right.
Arthur smiled, setting his briefcase on the floor and adjusting his suit jacket as he sat. "I brought the preliminary quarterly reports for the real estate expansion in Naperville. If we clear the zoning board next week—"
"I didn't bring you here to talk about Naperville, Arthur," I interrupted softly.
Arthur paused, his cultured smile lingering, though his blue eyes sharpened with caution. "Oh? What’s on your mind?"
At that moment, the double doors of the kitchen swung open.
June Carter walked into the dining room. She was no longer wearing her faded gray housekeeping uniform. She wore a simple, elegant dark navy dress that Clara, my late wife’s former stylist, had brought to the house an hour earlier. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and her face was clean, though the faint dark circles beneath her eyes remained.
She carried a silver serving tray bearing a carafe of fresh coffee and two fine porcelain cups.
Arthur barely glanced at her. To a man like Arthur Sterling, domestic staff were part of the furniture—invisible, nameless, and disposable.
"Thank you, dear," Arthur said absently, waving a hand to dismiss her as she set his cup down.
June didn't leave. She stepped back, standing quietly behind my chair, her hands folded in front of her.
Arthur frowned slightly, looking at me. "Dominic? Is something wrong with the service this morning?"
"Do you know who she is, Arthur?" I asked, setting my coffee cup down with a sharp click against the saucer.
Arthur glanced at June again, his brow furrowing with mild annoyance. "She’s one of the housemaids, I assume. Dominic, if she’s made a mistake with your laundry or your meals, simply inform the agency manager. You don't need to involve me in household discipline."
"Her name is June Carter," I said, my voice drop-forged and steady. "She’s twenty-seven years old. She has two children, Lila and Micah, who live in Peoria because June can't afford Chicago rent on the three hundred and fifty dollars a week your agency pays her."
Arthur’s face underwent a microscopic change. The smooth, patriarchic warmth froze, replaced by a sudden, icy stillness. His hand, reaching for his napkin, paused in mid-air.
"Dominic," Arthur said, his voice dropping an octave into a smooth, legal tone. "I don't know what lies a disgruntled employee has been whispering in your ear, but—"
"She didn't whisper anything," I said, pulling my tablet from my jacket and sliding it across the polished mahogany table until it bumped against his porcelain cup. "She was eating cold rice off my pantry floor at two in the morning because she was starving. So I opened the books myself."
Arthur looked down at the tablet screen. On it were the wire transfers from Blackwell Domestic Services into the Cayman accounts of L&M Management, along with the digital authorization signatures bearing his personal cryptographic key.
The color drained from Arthur’s face, turning his regal complexion to the shade of wet ash.
"Dominic... listen to me," Arthur stammered, his smooth composure fracturing into panicked fragments. "You don't understand the broader picture. The domestic division was underperforming. I had to create a secondary capital stream to fund the political action committees in Springfield—"
"You stole fourteen million dollars from working-class women," I said, standing up slowly. My full height shadowed the table, blocking out the morning sunlight from the windows. "You used my name, my late wife’s company, and my grief to build a slush fund for the O’Malley family."
Arthur’s eyes went wide with terror. "You... you know about O'Malley?"
"I know everything, Arthur," I said, leaning over the table until my face was six inches from his. "I know you have a meeting with their lieutenants at the Drake Hotel at two o'clock today to discuss buying out my logistics board. But you aren't going to that meeting."
"Dominic, you can't do this!" Arthur shouted, his voice cracking as he reached for his briefcase. "I made this company! Your father left me in charge of you!"
"My father left you to serve my family," I replied coldly. "You forgot your place."
The side doors of the dining room opened, and Marco stepped inside, accompanied by two large, plainclothes security men.
"Arthur Sterling," Marco said, holding out a pair of steel handcuffs. "You're coming with us. We have a private conference room prepared for you in the basement of our security office in Cicero. You're going to sign over every account, every asset, and every ledger before the police are invited to the party."
Arthur looked at me, his eyes wild with desperation, then at June standing quietly behind my shoulder.
"You're destroying an empire for a maid?!" Arthur shrieked as Marco’s men hoisted him out of his chair, stripping him of his coat and briefcase. "She’s nobody! She’s a servant!"
May you like
I walked around the table, stopping beside June, and placed a firm, protective hand on her shoulder.
"She’s not a servant, Arthur," I said as Marco dragged him toward the exit. "She’s an employee of the Blackwell family. And unlike you, she has integrity."
