At the Andersons’ mansion, Julius Anderson sat at the far end of the dining table—the seat his father once ruled from. The weight of it pressed into his spine. Firstborn. Heir. Enforcer of a legacy soaked in blood.

At the opposite end sat his mother, Kate Anderson, composed and watchful, her presence as unyielding as stone. To Julius’s right was his sister, Barbara, quiet but alert, her fingers curled loosely around her cutlery like a habit she’d learned too young.

No one spoke.

The only sounds were the muted scrape of silverware against porcelain and the soft, disciplined footfalls of servants moving in and out of the pantry. Even the mansion itself seemed to be holding its breath.

Barbara glanced up from her plate—first at Julius, then at their mother. The tension between them was thick, coiled tight like a loaded gun. Since their father’s death, every decision had become a battlefield.

Kate believed a clan survived through mercy and restraint—by keeping its people loyal rather than afraid. Julius believed fear was the only language power understood. Their father had ruled that way, and the clan had flourished. The order had been carved with iron hands and paid for in blood.

Barbara hated what the tension was doing to them.

If their enemies sensed weakness—division—it would be an invitation. And invitations in their world were answered with bullets.

She set her fork down carefully.

“So,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice, “when are you going to take a bride, big brother? You’re of age. And you’re our leader—for now. A wedding might remind the clan there’s still something worth celebrating.”

Julius dabbed his lips with his napkin, slow and deliberate.

“This clan doesn’t need another distraction,” he said coolly. “There’s too much work left unfinished. You should be more concerned with your shooting drills. Or have you forgotten what the last celebration cost us?”

“Enough, Julius,” Kate cut in, her voice sharp as broken glass. “It was a suggestion. You don’t need to exhume the past. We all remember what we buried.”

Julius’s jaw tightened.

Kate leaned back slightly, her eyes never leaving him.
“Since we’re talking about unfinished work—what of finding your brother? Any progress you’d care to share?”

Barbara exhaled quietly. “Here we go.”

“It’s being handled,” Julius said.

“That answer doesn’t satisfy me,” Kate replied.

Julius pushed his chair back with a sudden scrape. He grabbed his wine glass, drained it in one harsh swallow, and slammed it onto the table.

“Mrs Phidous MarQueen—the head maid who fled with your son—is dead,” he said coldly. “And with her gone, we have no trail. No witnesses. No leverage.

“We investigated the adoption agency where she worked before marriage. No records of a child. No suspicious activity. According to everyone we spoke to, she arrived alone, asked for work, and was taken in by the priest who ran the place.

“She lived for those children. Never disappeared. Never raised suspicion. Even after marriage, she continued supporting the agency. She was clean. Too clean.

“That’s all we have.”

Kate’s fingers closed around her cutlery until her knuckles blanched white.

“With all our eyes and ears in Boston,” she said quietly, dangerously, “that is all you’ve uncovered?”

Julius said nothing.

Her gaze hardened.
“Useless,” she spat. “Do you expect me to believe my son is dead?”

She rose to her feet, chair screeching across the floor.

“That woman was trained,” Kate continued, her voice shaking with fury. “Combat. Survival. Loyalty. She would have died before letting harm come to that child—and you want me to believe my son didn’t survive?”

The room seemed to shrink around them.

“I don’t care how many men it takes,” she said, leaning over the table. “Send ten. Send a hundred. Burn through every favour, every debt. If you must, unleash the entire goddamn clan. If it must get to that.”

Her eyes locked onto Julius’s.

“Find my son.”

***

Kelvin Bruce

It had been a long day—hours spent scrubbing through footage in my apartment, which doubled as my office for my private detective work. I’d pushed every other case aside for my mother’s. Her death had come without warning. I needed answers. That was why I’d been coming home late.

It was almost 6 p.m. when I pulled into the MarQueen mansion. My adopted father’s car sat in the driveway. He was home.

I cut the engine, stepped out, and entered through the garage door.

The house was dark. Too dark.

Only the living room glowed.

I followed the light and found my dad seated on the couch, watching old videos of his late wife. The television was the only thing illuminating the room. Everything else was swallowed by shadow.

I knew he was grieving. I hadn’t known it had driven him into this kind of isolation.

I cleared my throat.

He paid me no attention.

I crossed to the wall and flipped the light switch.

That got his attention.

“Good evening,” I said.

He stared at me.

“What’s good about it?” he snapped. “If you’re having a good night, take it to your room. Leave me to mine.”

I exhaled slowly and stepped closer. “Have you eaten? I was told you fired the cook I hired. Why would you do that?”

There was silence.

“Are you planning on joining her?” I asked quietly. "I mean your wife."

His eyes never left the screen.

On the TV, I watched my parents running along a beach—my mother laughing as he chased her during their honeymoon. Happy. Alive. The kind of memory that cuts deeper the longer you watch it.

I wish she were still alive for us to plan a vacation together.

I looked at him. He didn’t blink.

“I heard you went to the police department,” I said. “The one handling Mom’s case.”

“How did you know?” he asked, still watching.

“I have an informant.”

He said nothing.

“I heard you watched the road footage capturing moms car in town,” I went on. “But nothing at the accident site.”

“When they ran the plates of the car tailing her, it led nowhere, I believe.”

“Is that why you keep replaying these clips?” I asked. “To bleed the anger out?”

Nothing. He just stared ahead.

I walked up to the television and shut it off.

The room went dead silent.

When I turned back at him, fury burned in his eyes.

He flew the remote at me.

I moved just in time. It missed me by inches and slammed into the screen, shattering it.

I froze.

He had never raised a hand—or anything else—at me before.

We stared at each other. Then his anger collapsed, replaced by regret.

Without a word, he stood, turned away, and disappeared down the hallway to his room.