Chapter 3 - The Midterm Infiltration
The campus of St. Anselm Preparatory was an architectural monument to old money—Gothic limestone towers, ivy-covered arches, and a quadrangle where the children of senators, CEOs, and cartel bosses walked the same manicured grass. It was a place where reputation was currency, and right now, Cole Whitaker’s stock was fluctuating wildly.
Victor Whitaker walked down the corridor of the Wharton Business Hall, surrounded by three large varsity lacrosse players who functioned as his personal muscle. He was holding a manila folder, his eyes scanning the glass doors of the private study carrels.
He found Cole in Carrel 4B.
Cole was alone, his blazer draped over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the thick white bandage around his palm. He was staring at a laptop screen, his face expressionless.
Victor didn't knock. He shoved the door open, his boots clicking loudly on the linoleum. "Still pretending to be a scholar, cousin?"
Cole didn't look up from the screen. "You're in my light, Victor."
"I went through your room this morning," Victor said, leaning over the desk, dropping his hands onto Cole’s paperwork. He searched for the blue plastic, the colored sheets, anything anomalous. But there was nothing on the desk except a standard black pen and a legal pad covered in neat, block-letter notes. "The maids did a very thorough job cleaning it. Almost too thorough. It’s like someone knew I was coming."
"Maybe you just have bad luck," Cole said, finally raising his eyes. The gray in his pupils was ice-cold, a direct inheritance from his father. "Or maybe you're just stupid enough to think I need help to beat you."
Victor laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You’ve been a functional illiterate since we were ten, Cole. I remember when your father made you read the Christmas toast and you started crying because the word tradition looked like treason to you. You think a few weeks of good marks changes what you are?"
Cole’s fist clenched beneath the desk, the pressure causing a fresh line of red to bloom through his bandage. He didn't let Victor see it. He remembered what Elena had told him the night before: Victor relies on your anger. If you get angry, you stop looking at the patterns. If you stop looking at the patterns, you miss the trap.
"The Dean's oral exam is tomorrow at noon, Victor," Cole said softly. "Three professors. External auditors from the Chicago Board of Trade. If I pass, father gives me the signature authority for the West Side logistics account. If you're so sure I'm going to fail, why are you sweating through your expensive shirt?"
Victor’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening. He reached down, grabbed Cole’s jaw with one hand, forcing his face up. "Because I know you're a fraud. And I’m going to find the girl who’s writing your script. When I do, I’m going to show Uncle Mason what happens when a Whitaker lets a servant pull his strings."
Victor shoved Cole’s face away and stormed out of the carrel, his muscle following close behind.
Cole sat in the silence of the room, his breath coming in slow, measured counts. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single white poker chip. On it, Elena had drawn a small, silver anchor using a paint pen.
May you like
He flipped the chip in his fingers. The smooth plastic felt real. The symbol didn't move. It didn't flip. It stood for maritime liability limit—$500 per package. He didn't need to read the words. He knew the anchor. He knew the law.
He closed his eyes and began to visualize the entire shipping map of the Chicago River, every dock colored in blue, every warehouse colored in red, just as Elena had drawn it on the floor of the library. For the first time in his life, Cole wasn't afraid of the test. He was ready for the war.
