Chapter 3 - The Altar of the Champagne-3
The heavy mahogany double doors of the mansion were burst open before we had even reached the top porch step. Standing in the grand, white marble foyer, dressed in a flawless cream wool suit with a crystal champagne flute held casually between her fingers, was my mother, Eleanor. Beside her stood my father, Richard, his tie loosened, a wide, triumphant smile stretching across his face as he laughed at a comment Madison had just made from the adjacent lounge block.
The party was still running. The music from the high-end stereo network was a low, vibrating current that hummed through the marble floorboards, the scent of expensive catering and lavender candle wax thick in the humid air.
But the moment my crutches clicked past the threshold, the laughter ground to a sudden, dead stop. Madison froze near the champagne cart, her hand dropping from her glass, her eyes widening into an expression of pure, unadulterated fury as she recognized the worn military travel jacket I was still wearing over my uniform trousers.
"Emily?" my mother scoffed, her voice dropping into that sharp, patronizing clip she used to dismiss the domestic staff. She set her glass down onto the marble island counter with a sharp thud. "What is the meaning of this? You look absolutely disgraceful. I told you on the phone that this weekend was entirely reserved for your sister's milestone. You cannot just march into my foyer with your muddy boots and your little brother's grease rags."
"This isn't your foyer, Eleanor," I said, my voice completely flat, devoid of any anger or hatred. I didn't slow my pace; I moved straight into the center of the room, my gray eyes locking onto my father's pale face with a freezing, absolute clarity.
Richard Blackwood took a slow, measured step backward away from his desk terminal, his knuckles turning a bloodless white as he gripped the edge of his legal pad. He didn't look at my face; his terrified gaze had traveled past my shoulder, locking onto the gold federal badges clipped to the lapels of the three uniform U.S. marshals who had just stepped through the double doors behind me.
"Richard Blackwood, Eleanor Blackwood," Senior Marshal Davis said, his voice a hard baritone of absolute federal authority that cut through the music like a blade. "We are executing an immediate emergency asset seizure mandate issued under the National Security Bank Fraud Acts. Every account, every land title, and every corporate share registered under The Tuesday Sovereign Ledger has been locked down by order of the federal grand jury in Washington."
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He stepped forward, pushing past my mother's frozen form, and thrust a thick block of compliance enforcement documents directly against my father's chest.
"The Nicosia wire transfers you authorized six days ago... the forgery of Emily Blackwood's digital signature token... it’s all in the federal evidence logs now, sir. You have exactly thirty minutes to pack a single suitcase of personal effects and clear this property line before the state marshals weld the security locks from the outside."
