Twenty million dollars.
The words echoed in Jason's head on the ride home, a number so vast it felt more like a weapon than a sum of money. The weight of it was heavier than the old Ezra's failures, heavier even than the shame of his own past life. This was a different kind of weight. It was the weight of a crown.
He returned to the Fifth Avenue mansion. The house felt different. Or maybe he was different. The butler who took his coat met his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than usual. The maids who scurried past seemed to make themselves smaller.
Word travels fast in the Rockefeller ecosystem. He was no longer just the son-in-law. He was a player.
Dinner was served in the grand, cavernous dining room. As always, it was just him and Alta, seated at opposite ends of a ridiculously long mahogany table. A polished river of wood and silence separated them.
Usually, the silence was cold, empty, a monument to their indifference. Tonight, it was different. It was a watchful, charged silence. He could feel her studying him over the rim of her water glass.
She broke the silence first.
"I heard Junior was displeased with your meeting today," she said. Her voice was perfectly neutral, but the question was a sharp probe into enemy territory.
Jason carefully placed his fork down. He met her gaze across the table, across the reflection of the gaslights that swam on the polished surface.
"Junior is a child playing with prayer beads in a tiger cage," he said, his voice low and clear. "He doesn't understand the nature of the beast."
He didn't need to elaborate. He had faced her father, faced her brother's accusations, and had not only survived but thrived. He had passed the only test that mattered in this family.
Alta gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It was the most validation she had ever shown him.
"Be careful, Ezra," she said. Her tone held a note he'd never heard before, something that sounded almost like a genuine warning. "Tigers have claws."
She placed her napkin on the table, stood, and left the room. It wasn't an ending. It was the beginning of a new chapter between them.
Later that night, Jason was in the study. The room no longer felt like Ezra's tomb; it was his war room. He had a detailed map of New York City's financial district spread across the desk, key banks and trust companies circled in red ink like targets on a battlefield.
Twenty million dollars was his army. He was charting the connections, the lines of credit, the hidden weaknesses. He was identifying the next dominoes that had to fall to create the perfect storm of chaos he needed.
He was no longer gambling. He was planning a siege.
The study door opened without a knock.
It was Alta. She had changed into a simple silk dressing gown, her hair undone and falling over her shoulders. She looked softer, less severe, but her eyes were as sharp as ever.
She was holding a small, leather-bound journal.
"This was my mother's," she said, her voice quiet in the still room. "My mother was not a sentimental woman. She kept notes on everyone my father did business with. Their secrets. Their debts. Their weaknesses."
She walked to the desk and placed the journal down beside the map. The worn leather cover seemed to absorb the lamplight.
"My father respects strength," Alta continued, her gaze direct and unflinching. "But my brother believes he can reclaim this family's soul. He will use every tool he has—morality, public opinion, the press—to destroy you. He sees you as the serpent in his garden."
Her eyes were clear and cold. "This house is divided, Ezra. You cannot afford to fight a war on two fronts."
Jason looked from the journal to her face. The air crackled with unspoken terms. "Why are you helping me?"
Alta's expression was unreadable, a perfect mask. "Because my father has chosen a side," she said. "And I have never bet against my father."
It wasn't about affection. It wasn't about loyalty to him. It was about survival. A partnership of pure, cold pragmatism. He understood that language better than any other.
He reached for the journal. "Thank you," he said, without looking up.
When he finally did, she was already gone.
He opened the journal. The handwriting was a precise, elegant script. The first page detailed a secret, crippling debt owed by the president of a rival trust company, a man who publicly decried the Rockefellers.
It was ammunition of the highest caliber. It was a key to a door he didn't even know existed.
To celebrate his victory, Jason did the one thing the old Ezra would never have dared: he walked into Delmonico's alone and asked for the best table.
He wasn't there for the food. He was there to be seen. The restaurant was the beating heart of New York's elite, a theater where power was put on display. He ordered the most expensive steak and a bottle of French wine, feeling the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes on him.
They were whispering. They knew who he was. He was the man who had broken the Heinzes. He was Rockefeller's new blade.
A commotion erupted near the entrance. A man was shouting, his voice raw with fury, shoving past the maître d' who was trying to restrain him.
"PRENTICE!"
The roar silenced the entire restaurant. Conversation died. Forks froze halfway to mouths. Every head turned.
It was Augustus Heinze. His fine suit was rumpled and stained. His normally clean-shaven face was covered in a dark stubble, and his eyes were wild with the incandescent rage of a man who had lost everything.
He stormed through the tables, his path a straight line to Jason.
"You!" he spat, his voice shaking with a murderous hate. He slammed his hands down on Jason's table, rattling the fine china. "You did this! My family is destroyed! My name is ruined! Because of your lies! Your whispers!"
Jason slowly, deliberately, cut a piece of his steak. He speared it with his fork and chewed it thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off the enraged man.
"You overplayed your hand, Mr. Heinze," Jason said, his voice quiet but carrying through the dead-silent room. "Someone was bound to call your bluff."
The calm dismissal drove Heinze over the edge. With a guttural roar, he lunged across the table, grabbing the front of Jason's shirt in his fists. His face, contorted with rage and smelling of whiskey, was inches from Jason's.
"This isn't over!" he snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "You took my fortune. I swear to God, I will take your life!"
Security guards finally reached them, two large men who grabbed Heinze by the arms and began to haul him away. He struggled, kicking and screaming curses. "You'll pay, Prentice! I'll see you in hell!"
They dragged him out, his threats echoing through the opulent dining room.
Jason calmly straightened his tie. He smoothed his shirt. He picked up his fork, speared another piece of steak, and took a bite as the entire restaurant stared in stunned silence.
The taste was victory, rich and satisfying. But the threat lingered in the air, cold and sharp as a knife.