The transition from the marble halls of the Foundation to the red velvet interior of The Gilded Lily was jarring, yet the men inside were exactly the same.
Jason stepped out of the cold night air into a foyer that smelled of heavy perfume and expensive cigars. A madam in a silk gown moved to intercept him, her smile practiced and icy.
"We are closed for private parties, sir," she began.
Jason didn't speak. He simply handed her a thick envelope of cash. She weighed it in her hand, her eyes flicking to his face, recognizing the look of a man who was not here for pleasure.
"Third booth on the left," she whispered, stepping aside. "The curtain is drawn."
Jason walked past the main parlor, where piano music tinkled softly. He moved down a dim hallway lined with private booths. He could hear laughter, the clink of glasses, the murmur of secrets being traded for flesh.
He reached the third booth. He could hear Alistair Sterling's voice, slurred and arrogant.
"...little saint doesn't know a balance sheet from a bible... thinks I'm helping the poor... helping myself is charity, isn't it?"
A woman giggled nervously.
Jason reached out and ripped the heavy velvet curtain back.
Sterling froze. He was slumped on a plush bench, his collar undone, his face flushed a deep, unhealthy red. A young woman was perched on his knee, holding a glass of champagne.
Sterling blinked, his eyes trying to focus. "Prentice?" he sputtered, squinting. "What the devil... get out! This is a private—"
"Leave," Jason said to the girl. He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on Sterling.
The girl scrambled up, sensing the violence in the air, and vanished into the hallway.
"What is the meaning of this!" Sterling roared, trying to stand up but swaying on his feet. "I'll have you thrown out! I'll tell Junior you followed me! I'll—"
"Sit down."
The command was quiet, but it cracked like a whip. Sterling fell back onto the bench, stunned by the sheer authority in Jason's voice.
Jason stepped into the booth and let the curtain fall shut behind him. The air was stifling. He placed a single, manila file folder on the table, right next to the champagne bucket.
"Junior believes you are a saint, Alistair," Jason said softly.
He opened the folder.
Inside were photographs. Grainy, black-and-white images taken by Gates. Sterling entering the brothel. Sterling leaving a gambling den. And beneath them, copies of bank transfers—money moving from the Foundation's accounts into shell companies registered to Sterling's brother.
Sterling stared at the photos. The color drained from his face, leaving it a sickly, paste-like gray. The bluster vanished, replaced by the terrified silence of a man watching his life disintegrate.
"Imagine his heartbreak," Jason whispered, leaning in close, "if he saw these. Imagine the newspapers. The police."
Sterling's hands began to shake. He reached for his glass, but his fingers fumbled, and it knocked over, spilling champagne across the table. He didn't notice.
"What... what do you want?" he croaked.
"I want you gone," Jason said.
He pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. It was typed on General Education Board letterhead.
"Resign. Tonight. Cite ill health. A heart condition. You are leaving for a sanatorium in Switzerland immediately to seek treatment."
He placed a fountain pen on top of the paper.
"If you sign this, and leave the country by morning, these photos burn. You keep your money. You keep your freedom."
Jason's eyes hardened. "If you stay... you burn. I will hand this file to the District Attorney myself. You will go to prison, Alistair. And in prison, men like you... they don't last long."
Sterling looked at the paper. He looked at the photos. He looked at Jason's face, searching for any hint of mercy. He found none. He realized, with a dawning horror, that he wasn't dealing with a lawyer. He was dealing with an executioner.
He picked up the pen. His hand shook violently as he scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page.
Jason snatched the paper away before the ink was dry. He checked the signature. It was legible enough.
"Smart choice," Jason said. He gathered the photos and the file. "Your boat leaves at dawn. Don't miss it."
He turned and walked out, leaving Sterling alone in the red gloom, a ruined man staring at a puddle of spilled champagne.
The next morning, the resignation was delivered by courier.
Junior called Jason at 8:00 AM. His voice was thick with panic. "Ezra, you must come. Immediately. Something terrible has happened."
Jason arrived at Junior's townhouse twenty minutes later. He found his brother-in-law pacing in his study, his face pale, holding the resignation letter as if it were a tragic telegram from the front lines.
"He's gone," Junior said, his voice trembling. "Alistair. He... he sent this. His heart is failing. He's leaving for Europe. He says he might not survive the winter."
Junior slumped into a chair, burying his face in his hands. "He was a pillar, Ezra! A true friend! How could this happen so suddenly?"
Jason walked over and placed a comforting hand on Junior's shoulder. He suppressed the urge to smile.
"It is a tragedy, Junior," Jason said, his voice grave and sympathetic. "A terrible blow. He concealed his pain to spare you. That is the mark of a noble man."
Junior looked up, tears in his eyes. "What will we do? The Board meeting is next week. The treasury... he held all the keys."
Jason sighed, a sound of heavy contemplation. "It is a trial, certainly. But perhaps... perhaps it is also a sign."
Junior blinked. "A sign?"
"The Lord closes a door and opens a window," Jason said. The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he delivered them with perfect conviction. "Think of the timing, Junior. Just yesterday, your father sent us Judge Calloway."
He let the thought hang there.
"Calloway..." Junior murmured.
"He is a man of immense experience," Jason urged gently. "A man of unimpeachable character. He is the only member of the Board with the legal and financial standing to step into the role of Treasurer immediately. Without him... the Foundation would be paralyzed."
Junior's eyes widened. The panic began to recede, replaced by a dawning sense of wonder. He saw the logic. He saw the timing. He saw God's hand moving pieces on the board to save his work.
"You're right," Junior whispered. "It's providence. It must be."
He stood up, his resolve returning. He walked to his desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery.
"I will draft the order immediately," Junior said, dipping his pen in ink. "Calloway will be interim Treasurer. We cannot let the work falter."
Jason watched the pen move across the paper. With every stroke, Junior was signing away his control. He was handing the keys to his kingdom, his secrets, and his legacy to Jason's puppet.
"A wise decision," Jason said softly. "God is surely watching over you."
The victory was total. The enemy within was vanquished, replaced by a loyal soldier. Junior was pacified, believing his good works were safe.
But in the Rockefeller world, peace was just the time you spent reloading.
That evening, back in his own study, Jason poured himself a drink. The crystal decanter clinked against the glass.
Alta entered the room. She looked at him, her expression unreadable.
"Junior called me," she said. "He told me about the 'miracle.'"
"He believes what he needs to believe," Jason said, taking a sip. "Calloway has the keys. The Foundation is secure. Junior can play at being a saint, and we will make sure he doesn't accidentally burn the house down."
They shared a dark, knowing look. A silent toast to a necessary deception.
But the moment of triumph was cut short. Alta walked to the desk and picked up a document that lay there, overshadowing the evening newspaper.
It was a subpoena. The seal of the United States Department of Justice was stamped in angry red ink at the top.
"You handled the family," Alta said, her voice turning serious. "You handled the market. But can you handle this?"
She dropped the subpoena back onto the desk.
"The antitrust suit is heating up, Ezra. Roosevelt is not backing down. He's attacking the holding companies. He wants to break Standard Oil into pieces. He wants to destroy the Empire."
Jason looked at the document. The headline of the newspaper beneath it read: ROOSEVELT ATTACKS STANDARD OIL: 'NO MAN IS ABOVE THE LAW'.
The internal war was won. The trap had been sprung. But the external war—the war for the existence of the company itself—was just beginning.
Jason picked up the subpoena. He felt the weight of the government, of the courts, of the entire nation bearing down on them.
He looked at Alta. A cold fire lit his eyes.
"Let them come," he said. "I know the future. I know how this ends."
He walked to the fireplace and tossed the subpoena onto the logs. The paper curled, browned, and then burst into flame. He watched the government seal turn to ash and float up the chimney.
"They can't break us," he said, the flames reflecting in his eyes. "They can only make us richer."
He turned back to his wife.
"Get me the file on the Supreme Court Justices," he commanded. "It's time we went to Washington."