The silver knife scraped against the china plate.
Scritch.
The sound was louder than a scream in the silent breakfast room.
Jason sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He cut his poached egg with precise, mechanical movements. He chewed. He swallowed. He felt nothing.
Across from him, Alta Rockefeller Prentice sat like a statue carved from ice.
She wore a high-collared morning dress of stiff blue silk. Her spine didn't touch the back of her chair. She held the New York Times open in front of her face, shielding herself from the sight of her husband.
She hadn't spoken a word to him since the gala.
The air in the room was freezing. The servants moved like ghosts, pouring coffee and clearing plates without making a sound, terrified to break the tension.
Jason took a sip of black coffee. It was bitter.
He looked at the back of the newspaper. He could see the faint outline of the headlines through the paper.
PIER 14 SHOOTOUT.
ANARCHIST LEADER KILLED IN POLICE RAID.
Jason sliced another piece of toast.
"The eggs are excellent today," Jason said.
Alta didn't lower the paper.
"You ruined a shirt last night," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Italian silk. Three hundred dollars."
"It was a small price to pay," Jason replied.
"For what?" Alta snapped.
She finally lowered the paper. Her eyes were hard, searching. They drilled into him.
"For clumsiness? Or for the spectacle of a maid looking at you like she knew your soul?"
Jason stopped eating. He placed his knife and fork down on the plate. Clink.
He looked at his wife. He saw the suspicion burning in her. She thought he was having an affair. She thought he was weak.
He needed to fix this. Not with an apology. With the truth. Or at least, a version of it that she would understand.
"She didn't know my soul, Alta," Jason said calmly. "She knew my secret."
Alta's eyes narrowed. "So you admit it. Who is she? A mistress from your drinking days? A whore?"
"No," Jason said. "She was a spy."
Alta froze. The anger in her face was replaced by sharp confusion.
Jason reached across the table. He tapped the front page of the newspaper Alta was holding.
"Read the second article," Jason commanded. "Bottom of the page."
Alta looked at him, then at the paper. She adjusted her grip and scanned the text.
Police identified the deceased as Arthur Gates, a known fixer and racketeer associated with the waterfront gangs...
Alta stopped. Her breath hitched.
She remembered.
She remembered the man at the gala. The one in the ill-fitting suit, leaning against the pillar, drinking champagne with an insolent grin. The man Jason had been watching all night.
"Gates," she whispered.
"He was a blackmailer," Jason said. His voice was steady, cold. "He found the girl. He used her to get to me. He threatened to expose false scandals to the press. He threatened the family reputation."
Jason leaned back in his chair. He picked up his coffee cup.
"He wanted shares in the company. He wanted a seat at the table."
Alta lowered the paper slowly. Her face was pale, but her eyes were wide with realization.
She was putting the pieces together. The timing. The spilled wine. Jason leaving the party abruptly. The shootout at midnight.
"You left the gala at ten," Alta said.
"I had business to attend to," Jason said.
"And he was dead by one," she finished.
The silence stretched between them. It was heavy, electric.
This was the moment.
Alta looked at her husband. She looked for the timid, alcoholic lawyer she had married years ago. He wasn't there.
Sitting across from her was a man who had ordered an execution between the appetizer and the dessert.
She should have been horrified. She was a church-going woman. She was a Rockefeller.
But she wasn't horrified.
Jason saw the shift in her eyes. The fear remained, but it was joined by something else.
Respect.
She realized he hadn't humiliated her with an affair. He had protected her with a bullet.
"And the girl?" Alta asked quietly.
"Gone," Jason said. "She won't speak. She won't be seen again."
"Did you..." Alta hesitated. She couldn't finish the sentence.
"I solved the problem," Jason said. "She is alive. But she is gone."
Alta stared at him for a long moment. She studied his face, the hard set of his jaw, the dead calm in his eyes.
She realized she was married to a monster.
But he was her monster.
She picked up the silver bell next to her plate. She rang it once. A sharp, clear note.
The butler stepped out of the shadows.
"Yes, madam?"
"More coffee for Mr. Prentice," Alta said. Her voice was steady. "And tell the cook the eggs were perfect."
She folded the newspaper. She placed it on the table, face down, covering the headline about the dead man.
She reached across the table.
Her hand—cool, manicured, steady—touched Jason's tie. She adjusted the knot, straightening it by a fraction of an inch.
"Next time," Alta whispered, looking directly into his eyes, "don't spill the wine. Red is so difficult to get out of the carpet."
Jason looked at her. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"I'll be more careful," he said.
"Good."
Alta picked up her fork. She cut a piece of melon.
"Now," she said, her tone shifting to brisk efficiency. "Junior is coming over at nine. He's panicking about the Ford rumors. He thinks you've lost your mind investing in a toy factory."
"Junior lacks vision," Jason said, picking up his own fork.
"He lacks a spine," Alta corrected. "Show him the numbers, Ezra. Make him rich. If he's rich, he'll shut up."
"I intend to."
They ate in silence.
But it wasn't the freezing silence of before. It was the comfortable, complicit silence of two wolves sharing a kill.
An hour later, the library at 26 Broadway was filled with smoke.
John D. Rockefeller Sr. sat in his wingback chair, puffing on a cigar. Junior paced back and forth in front of the window, wringing his hands.
"It's madness!" Junior exclaimed. "Automobiles are a fad, Father! They are noisy, they smell, and they break down every five miles. They are toys for the idle rich!"
He pointed an accusing finger at Jason, who was standing by the fireplace.
"And Ezra wants to dump millions of our hard-earned capital into this... this fantasy! 'Future Holdings'? It sounds like a scam!"
Senior didn't speak. He watched Jason through the haze of cigar smoke. His eyes were unreadable.
Jason waited for Junior to finish hyperventilating.
"Are you done?" Jason asked.
"No, I am not done!" Junior shouted. "We are an oil company, Ezra! We sell kerosene for lamps! That is our business! Stable. Reliable. God-fearing light!"
Jason walked to the desk. He picked up a leather portfolio.
He didn't open it. He just held it.
"The electric light bulb is killing kerosene, Junior," Jason said softly. "Edison killed our business ten years ago. We just haven't admitted it yet."
"Nonsense!" Junior sputtered. "People will always need—"
"People need to move," Jason cut him off.
He walked over to the window. He pulled the heavy velvet drapes aside.
"Look down there."
Junior hesitated, then walked to the window. Senior stood up and joined them.
Broadway was a river of traffic. Horses, carriages, drays. And amidst the chaos, a few black, sputtering shapes.
Cars.
"They are ugly," Senior grunted.
"They are hungry," Jason corrected.
He turned to face the two men.
"A lamp burns a gallon of kerosene in a week," Jason said. "A Model T Ford burns a gallon of gasoline in an hour."
Senior's eyes widened slightly.
"Think about the volume," Jason pressed. "If every family in America buys a car... they aren't just our customers once a month. They are our customers every single day."
He slammed the portfolio onto the desk.
"We aren't investing in a toy, Junior. We are investing in addiction. We are creating a world where no one can move without buying what we sell."
Senior walked to the desk. He picked up the portfolio. He opened it.
He looked at the stock certificates. He looked at the contracts Jason had signed with the steel mills and the rubber plantations.
He looked at the sheer scale of the bet Jason had made.
"You bought fifteen percent of Ford?" Senior asked.
"Through shell companies," Jason nodded. "And I secured exclusive supply rights for his factories. Every drop of oil, grease, and fuel in a Ford car will come from Standard Oil."
Senior looked up. The greedy grin was back.
"Junior," Senior said.
"Yes, Father?"
"Shut up."
Senior closed the portfolio. He tapped it with his finger.
"This isn't a fad," Senior said, looking at the cars on the street below. "It's a pipeline. A pipeline directly into the pockets of every man in America."
He looked at Jason.
"Does it work?" Senior asked. "This... Model T?"
"It works," Jason said. "And it's loud."
"Show me."
"What?" Junior gasped. "Father, you can't be serious. You'll be covered in soot!"
"Get your coat, Junior," Senior barked. He was already heading for the door, moving with a spry energy he hadn't shown in years. "We're going for a ride."
Jason smiled.
He followed the old man out.
He had neutralized Alta. He had silenced Gates. Now, he was about to hand the Rockefellers the keys to the twentieth century.
And God help anyone who stood in the road.