The boardroom of the General Education Board smelled of beeswax, old paper, and self-righteousness.
Jason stepped into the room and immediately felt like an intruder. The air was hushed and reverent, heavy with the scent of high-minded charity. This was not the smoke-choked den of J.P. Morgan, nor the cold, granite fortress of 26 Broadway. This was John D. Rockefeller Junior's sanctuary.
Around the massive oak table sat a dozen men—clergymen in stiff collars, university presidents with pince-nez glasses, and philanthropists who wore their morality like expensive suits. They murmured politely to one another, their voices low and gentle.
Jason felt like a wolf wearing a wool coat.
At the head of the table sat Junior. He looked completely at ease here, his face glowing with the light of good works. This was his kingdom, the one place where he wasn't just the son of a titan, but a leader in his own right.
Behind him, dominating the room, hung a massive oil portrait of John D. Rockefeller Sr. The painter had captured the old man's eyes perfectly—cold, analytical, and seemingly amused by the pious proceedings happening beneath his gaze.
Jason took a seat quietly in the back row, meant for legal counsel and secretaries. He kept his head down, his posture submissive. Today, he was not the Ghost of Wall Street. He was just Ezra, the helpful brother-in-law.
Junior cleared his throat. The room fell silent instantly.
"Gentlemen," Junior began, his voice ringing with earnest conviction. "We are gathered today to welcome a new voice to our fellowship. A man whose wisdom and integrity are known to all."
He gestured to the door. "I present to you, Judge Elias Calloway."
The door opened, and the Trojan Horse walked in.
Judge Calloway was a tall, spare man with a mane of white hair and a face carved from Old Testament granite. He carried a worn Bible in one hand and walked with the slow, deliberate gait of a patriarch. He looked like a saint.
Jason watched from the shadows. He knew the truth. He knew that Calloway's sprawling estate in Newport was paid for by Standard Oil dividends. He knew the Judge's son had been quietly bailed out of a gambling debt by a Rockefeller lawyer three years ago.
Calloway was bought and paid for.
"Judge," Junior said, beaming. "We are honored."
"The honor is mine," Calloway replied, his voice a deep, resonant baritone. "To serve the Lord by serving this Board is a calling I accept with humility."
The board members nodded in approval. A murmur of "Hear, hear" went around the table.
Jason scanned the faces. He saw approval, respect, and admiration.
Then his eyes landed on Alistair Sterling.
Sterling was seated near Junior's right hand. He was a younger man, handsome in a slick, polished way, with restless eyes. While the others nodded, Sterling was still. He was watching Calloway with the narrowed, calculating gaze of a man who senses a threat.
Sterling knew the game. He was a grifter hiding among saints, and he recognized the smell of another predator.
Jason caught Sterling's eye for a brief second. He held the gaze, letting his mask slip just enough to show a flicker of cold amusement. Sterling flinched and looked away.
"The nomination comes with the highest recommendation of my father," Junior continued, oblivious to the undercurrents. He looked at Jason, his expression hardening slightly. "And has been reviewed by our legal counsel."
It was a dismissal. A reminder to the room that Jason was just a functionary.
Jason nodded deferentially. "The legalities are in order, sir."
The vote was called. It was a formality. Hands went up around the table. Even Sterling, after a moment's hesitation, raised his hand. He couldn't be the lone dissenter against the Patriarch's choice.
"Unanimous," Junior declared, smiling broadly. "Judge Calloway, welcome to the Board."
The gate was open. The enemy was inside the walls.
The meeting dispersed into a flutter of handshakes and polite conversation. Junior was busy holding court, glowing with the success of the appointment.
Jason slipped out into the corridor. He waited in the shadow of a marble pillar.
A moment later, Judge Calloway emerged, clutching his Bible. He saw Jason and paused, checking to see if anyone was watching. He stepped into the alcove.
"Mr. Prentice," the Judge said, his voice dropping its theatrical resonance.
Jason extended his hand. Calloway gripped it. The old man's hand was dry and papery, but his grip was surprisingly strong.
"A moving performance, Judge," Jason said quietly.
"I spoke only the truth," Calloway said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "I am here to serve."
"You are here to serve the stability of this family," Jason corrected him, his voice hard. "Do not confuse the two."
Calloway stiffened. The pious mask slipped, revealing the frightened old man beneath. He knew who held his leash.
"I understand my instructions," Calloway whispered. He glanced nervously back toward the boardroom doors. "What is your will regarding Mr. Sterling?"
Jason leaned in closer. "Look at him."
Down the hall, Sterling was laughing loudly at something Junior had said, slapping the heir on the back with a familiarity that made Jason's skin crawl. He was too comfortable. Too confident.
"He is a weed in the garden," Jason said, his eyes fixed on the laughing man. "I am going to pull him out. Tonight."
He turned back to Calloway. "When he is gone, there will be a hole in the Board. A vacancy for the Treasurer. You will fill it."
Calloway's eyes widened. "Treasurer? But surely Junior will want to appoint—"
"Junior will appoint who I tell him to appoint," Jason cut him off. "You just be ready to accept the burden."
Calloway nodded slowly. "As you say."
Footsteps approached. Junior was walking toward them, beaming.
Jason immediately shifted his demeanor. He bowed his head respectfully to the Judge. "Your wisdom will be a great asset to us, Judge."
"Bless you, Ezra," Calloway intoned, raising his voice for Junior's benefit.
Junior reached them, placing a hand on Calloway's arm. "A fine start, Judge. A fine start indeed." He glanced at Jason, his eyes cool. "You may go, Ezra. We have spiritual matters to discuss."
Jason bowed again and walked away, leaving the saint and the sinner together. Junior had no idea he was looking at his jailer and his executioner.
That night, the phone in Jason's study rang.
It was Gates.
"The subject is on the move," the gravelly voice reported.
"Where?" Jason asked, pouring himself a glass of water.
"Not home," Gates said. "He's at The Gilded Lily. A house on 23rd Street."
Jason paused, the glass halfway to his mouth. "A brothel?"
"High-end," Gates clarified. "Very discreet. Or at least, it's supposed to be."
"Is he alone?"
"He's with a girl. And he's drinking. Heavily." Gates's voice dropped lower. "He's talking, Mr. Prentice. Loudly. He's bragging to the girl about his friends in high places. He mentioned the 'Rockefeller boy.' Said he has him wrapped around his little finger."
Jason set the glass down. The water rippled.
"He's getting sloppy," Gates warned. "If he talks too much to the wrong person... he becomes a liability to everyone."
Jason stared at the dark window. He had planned to remove Sterling slowly, over weeks. To erode his standing. But a drunk man bragging in a whorehouse was a grenade with the pin pulled.
If Sterling was exposed publicly in a scandal like this, the mud wouldn't just hit him. It would splatter all over Junior. It would humiliate the family.
Jason couldn't allow that. He had to cut the infection out now. Surgically. Silently.
"Keep him there, Gates," Jason commanded.
He walked to the coat rack and grabbed his heavy overcoat. He checked the inside pocket to make sure the file folder was there—the photos Gates had taken earlier in the week, the bank statements.
"Where are you going?" Alta appeared in the doorway, still dressed in her evening gown.
"To do the Lord's work," Jason said grimly.
"Ezra," she warned. "Be careful."
He buttoned his coat, his face set in a hard line.
"I'm going to give Mr. Sterling a lesson in discretion," he said. "And then I'm going to end him."