The car ride to 26 Broadway felt less like a journey and more like the final, silent walk to a guillotine.
The twenty-block trip downtown was a journey into the heart of power. The streets grew more crowded, the buildings taller, the air thick with the energy of a million churning gears of commerce. Jason stared out the window, his face a calm mask, but his mind was a storm of calculations.
He replayed every possible scenario. This wasn't a simple profit-and-loss meeting. This was a trial. Rockefeller Sr. was a shark. He might respect a fellow killer for bloodying the waters, or he might devour him for drawing unwanted attention. Jason knew his life, this strange second life, hinged on the next hour.
The car stopped. The chauffeur opened his door.
Before him stood the headquarters of Standard Oil. The building was a temple to capital, its entrance flanked by massive, ornate bronze doors that looked like the gates to a modern Olympus. They gleamed under the afternoon sun, indifferent and imposing.
He walked toward them, his footsteps echoing on the stone.
The lobby was a cavern of polished marble and echoing silence. Armies of clerks sat at rows of identical desks, their pens scratching in unison. As Jason passed, they averted their eyes. He wasn't one of them. He was something else, and they could smell it.
A man in a severe suit met him at a private elevator. "Mr. Prentice. This way."
The elevator ascended in unnerving silence, the floors ticking by. The higher they went, the more the sounds of the city faded, replaced by a profound, tomb-like quiet. This was the sanctum.
The secretary who greeted him on the top floor was a woman in her fifties with hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to strain her face. Her smile was a polite formality, but her eyes were as cold and dead as river stones.
"He is waiting," she said, gesturing to a set of towering oak doors.
Jason pushed them open and stepped inside.
The office was vast, but it wasn't cluttered. It was a declaration of severe, absolute power. A desk the size of a small boat sat at one end, but the man Jason had come to see wasn't behind it.
John D. Rockefeller Sr. was standing by the panoramic window, his back to the door. He was a small, dark silhouette against the backdrop of the city he owned. From this height, the roaring metropolis was reduced to a silent, intricate model. A toy.
The power play was obvious. Jason was a subject, summoned to the throne room.
He waited in silence. Seconds stretched into a minute. The only sound was the faint ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
Finally, Rockefeller Sr. turned, his movements slow and deliberate. His face was as impassive as granite, his eyes holding no discernible emotion.
"The ticker tape tells a remarkable story, Ezra," he said, his voice a dry rustle. "Tell me yours."
Jason walked forward, stopping a respectful ten feet from the most powerful man in the world. He kept his hands loosely at his sides, his posture relaxed but ready.
He gave his report. It was concise, clinical, and completely devoid of the truth.
"The Heinze brothers' position was built on arrogance and over-leveraged credit," he stated, his voice calm and even. "Their entire enterprise was a house of cards. Their collapse was an economic inevitability."
He met the old man's gaze. "I simply chose the correct moment to act on that inevitability."
He had presented it as pure, cold analysis. The work of a genius, not a saboteur.
Before Rockefeller could respond, the office doors burst open with a crash.
John D. Rockefeller Jr. strode into the room, his face a mask of righteous fury. He looked like an avenging angel, his eyes burning with conviction.
"He's lying!" Junior's voice cracked with outrage. "He didn't predict the collapse. He caused it!"
He marched to his father's desk and slapped a crumpled piece of paper down on the polished wood. He held it out like a prosecutor presenting the murder weapon.
"This is from Mr. Atherton at the Union Club!" he declared, his voice ringing with triumph. "He says Ezra deliberately spread malicious rumors. He manufactured the panic he profited from. This isn't finance, Father. It is a crime! It is a stain upon our name!"
The accusation hung in the air, sharp and deadly.
Rockefeller Sr. didn't even glance at his son. His cold, reptilian eyes remained fixed on Jason. Slowly, he walked to the desk and picked up the note. He read it, his expression unchanging.
The silence in the room was absolute, a crushing weight. This was the real test. Not whether Jason could win, but how he had won. And whether he would lie about it now.
The old man placed the note down carefully, aligning its edge with the corner of his desk blotter. His gaze shifted from the paper to Jason's face.
"Is this true?"
Jason felt Junior's triumphant glare, the old man's analytical stare. A lesser man would have denied it, squirmed, tried to justify his actions. The old Ezra would have dissolved into a puddle of apologies.
Jason Underwood did the one thing they didn't expect.
A slow, cold smile touched his lips. "Yes," he said. "It is."
Junior gasped, a sound of pure shock. He had expected a denial, not a confession.
Jason's smile widened. He held Rockefeller Sr.'s gaze, a predator acknowledging his sire.
"An inevitability, sir, is a weakness in the market," he said, his voice dropping, becoming harder, sharper. "And a weakness must be exploited, not pitied. A rumor is just a tool. As is capital. As is fear. I used the tools available to me to get the result you demanded."
He took a step closer, his eyes boring into the old man's.
"Did you want a lawyer who could file your papers, sir? Or did you want a man who could win?"
"Father, you cannot condone this!" Junior exploded, his voice shaking with disbelief. "This is dishonorable! It is everything they accuse us of being!"
Rockefeller Sr. finally turned his head to look at his son. His expression was one of profound, weary disappointment.
"Honor," the old man said, his voice like ice, "does not appear on a balance sheet."
He made a small, dismissive gesture with his hand. "Leave us."
Junior stared, his mouth opening and closing. He looked from his father to Jason, his face a canvas of betrayal and humiliation. He had brought the proof of a crime, and instead of a conviction, he was being dismissed like a petulant child.
He turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the great oak doors behind him.
Rockefeller Sr. walked back to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "The panic you spoke of is beginning," he said, looking down at the city. "The Heinzes' failure will cascade. The Knickerbocker Trust will be the next to feel the pressure."
He turned back to Jason, his eyes gleaming with a cold, terrifying light.
"I am placing twenty million dollars of the family's reserve capital under your direct authority."
The number hung in the air, a staggering, dizzying sum. It was more money than a thousand men could earn in a thousand lifetimes. It was the power to make or break nations.
"This is no longer about one company," Rockefeller said, his voice a low command that resonated deep in Jason's bones. "You will not just profit from this chaos. You will control it."
He took a step toward Jason, his gaze intense, demanding.
"Do you understand, Ezra?"