As he stepped back out into the hall, Samuel T. said dryly, “Well, that’s one way to do it—”

Like wasps riled from a nest, executives came running, the three men, one woman, and receptionist clown-car’ing their way into the narrow corridor at the same time. They stopped dead as soon as they saw him.

The CFO, a sixty-year-old, Ivy League–educated know-it-all with manicured hands and shoes spit-shined at his private club, recoiled. “What are you doing here?”

“Shutting this place down.”

“Excuse me?”

While another suit came skidding into the group, Lane just pointed to the back door he himself had come in through. “Get out. All of you.”

The CFO got robin-chested and authori-voiced. “You do not have the right to—”

“The police are on their way.” Which was technically true. “It’s your choice whether you’re leaving with them or in your own Mercedes. Or do you drive a Lexus?”

Lane watched their expressions carefully. And was entirely unsurprised when the CFO went on another you-have-no-right offensive.

“This is private property,” Samuel T. said smoothly. “This facility is not on corporate land. You have just been informed by the owner that you are not welcome. You all look smart enough to already know trespassing law in Kentucky, but I am more than happy to provide you with a quick lesson or a refresher as necessary. It will involve a shotgun, however, and a—”

Lane elbowed his lawyer in the liver to shut him up.

Meanwhile, the CFO pulled himself together and ran a hand down his red tie. “There are critical functions managed from this—”

Lane went in face-to-face with the guy, prepared to grab him by the Brooks Brothers and drag him out onto the lawn. “Shut up and start walking.”

“Your father would be appalled!”

“He’s dead, remember. So he doesn’t have an opinion. Now, are you leaving peacefully, or am I getting a gun like my lawyer was talking about.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Samuel T. spoke up. “You’re trespassing in three … two … one—”

“I’m going to tell the board chair about this—”

Lane crossed his arms over his chest. “As long as it’s not on a phone here, I don’t care whether you call the President of the United States or your fairy Godmother.”

“Wait,” Jeff cut in. “One of us will escort you to your offices for your car keys. You are not authorized to remove any equipment, drives, paperwork, or files from the premises.”

“Good one,” Lane said to his buddy.

Out at the Red & Black caretaker’s cottage, Edward smiled at his visitor as Shelby took her leave of them both. Ricardo Monteverdi was CEO of Prospect Trust, the largest privately held trust company in the middle of the country, and he looked the part, his trim figure and distinguished presentation in that pinstriped suit making Edward think of a brochure for the Wharton School of Business, ca. 1985. With the wall of silver trophies creating a halo around him, the glow suggested, falsely, that he might be a bearer of good tidings.

One knew better, however.

“Have you come to pay your respects about my father?” Edward drawled. “You needn’t bother.”

“Oh … but of course,” the banker said with a brief bow. “I am very sorry about your loss.”

“Which makes one of us.”

There was a pause, and Edward wasn’t sure whether the man was chewing on that quip or gearing up for the reason he’d come unannounced. Probably the latter.

“Is there something else?” Edward prompted.

“This is very awkward for me.”

“Clearly.”

There was another silence, as if the man would have much preferred Edward get to the point. But that was not going to happen. As Edward had long learned in business, he who opened the meeting in any given negotiation lost.

And yes, he knew why the man had driven out to the farm.

Monteverdi coughed a little. “Well, now. Indeed. With your father’s death, certain … arrangements … that he made need to be attended to, and in my case, with alacrity. Although I know you are in mourning, I’m afraid that there is one situation in particular which cannot be put off and which is imminently due. Accordingly, and in order to protect your family’s name and reputation, I am coming to you so that things may be handled discreetly.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “So I’m afraid you will have to be more specific.”

“Your father came to me several months ago for a private loan. I was happy to take care of what he required, but let us say that I had to get creative with the financing. The monies are due now and they must be repaid before the quarterly Prospect Trust board meeting or—”

“Or you will be in a tight spot?”

Monteverdi’s face got hard. “No, I will be forced to put your family in a tight spot.”

“I can’t help you.”

“I don’t think you understand. If that money is not repaid, I’m going to have to take legal action, and that will become very public, very quickly.”

“So sue us. Call the New York Times and tell them we owe your Trust company fifty-three million dollars. Tell them we’re deadbeats, liars, thieves. I don’t care.”

“I thought you said you knew nothing of this.”

Goddamn drink was still in his veins. Also, he was out of practice with verbal sparring.

“I think the issue,” Edward said with a smile, “is your needing to protect yourself. You’re trying to strong-arm me so that you don’t have to tell your board that you executed a massive, unsecured loan without their knowledge and admit that you’ve been skimming the interest from it for yourself. My response is that I don’t give a shit. Do whatever you have to. I don’t care because it’s not my problem.”

“Your mother is in a delicate state.”

“She’s in a coma for all intents and purposes.”

“As the eldest son, I would think you’d care about her welfare more than this.”

“I moved out here to this incredible luxury”—Edward waved a hand around at the ratty furniture—“to get away from all of that and all of them for a good reason. So sink that big fancy ship up on that hill. Shoot your cannons at my family’s mansion until the whole lot of it ends up on the seafloor. It is not going to affect me one way or another.”