Chapter 3 - The Fortress on the Hill
At 5:55 a.m., a black Lincoln Navigator idling at the curb of Scarlett’s small apartment complex in Ridgewood made no sound at all.
Scarlett stood by her mother’s bed in the dim morning light. Mrs. Monroe was sleeping softly, her face pale against the faded floral pillowcase, her breathing shallow but steady. The new medicine—ordered and delivered by a private courier at two in the morning, courtesy of a phone call Scarlett hadn't seen Victor make— sat on the nightstand. The receipt stuck to the box read: PAID IN FULL - VANCE HOLDINGS LLC.
"Be careful, sweetie," her mother had mumbled when Scarlett kissed her temple twenty minutes earlier. "Men with that much money don't buy things... they collect them."
Scarlett adjusted the collar of her black trousers—the only pair she owned that didn't have a grease stain from the diner—and walked out to the curb.
The driver was a man in his late fifties with short grey hair, a broken nose that had healed crooked, and hands the size of dinner plates. He opened the rear door for her without a word.
"I'm Scarlett," she said as she slid into the leather interior.
"Frank," the driver grunted, pulling into traffic. "Buckle up. Mr. Vance doesn't like people being late."
The drive took forty minutes, leaving the low-brick suburbs of Ridgewood behind and climbing up into the iron-fenced estates of the Watchung Mountains. The roads grew narrower, shaded by ancient oaks and pines, until they reached a set of massive cast-iron gates set into a twelve-foot stone wall.
Security cameras turned as the Navigator approached. The gates opened smoothly, revealing a winding driveway that led to a massive stone manor house that looked like a cross between an old European monastery and a modern military bunker.
"Welcome to the Cage," Frank said, killing the engine in the circular driveway.
"The Cage?" Scarlett asked, stepping out into the crisp mountain air.
"That's what the boys call it," Frank said, pulling her modest canvas bag from the trunk. "Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out. Mr. Vance hasn't slept more than four hours a night in this place since his brother died six years ago."
Before Scarlett could ask about the brother, the front double doors opened.
A woman in her early fifties wearing a razor-sharp navy suit stepped out onto the marble porch. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her silver-framed glasses hung from a chain around her neck.
"Miss Monroe," the woman said, her voice dry and efficient as a court reporter's. "I am Eleanor. I have been managing Mr. Vance's personal administrative affairs for nine years. I am retiring in three weeks due to an ulcer that refuses to heal. I have forty-eight hours to teach you how to keep this house from collapsing."
Scarlett looked at the massive stone facade, the tinted windows, and the three armed men patrolling the perimeter fence with Belgian Malinois dogs on short leashes.
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"Where is Mr. Vance?" Scarlett asked.
"In the library," Eleanor said, turning on her heel and marching inside. "He's been up since three. He's already fired the head chef, denied two territorial permits for the Philadelphia union, and ordered three hundred thousand dollars' worth of defense stock. Move quickly, Miss Monroe. In this house, if you're standing still, you're a target."
