The limousine ride back to Sterling Global was silent as a tomb. Cynthia Sharpe sat opposite Arthur, wisely scrolling on her phone rather than speaking. She knew better than to poke a wounded predator.
Arthur poured a drink from the car’s decanter, his hand shaking with rage. “He used Julian,” Arthur hissed. “My own son. The traitor.”
“It was a smart play,” Cynthia admitted, not looking up. “Expensive, but smart.”
“Money isn’t working,” Arthur snapped. “I tried to bankrupt him. I tried to buy him. He’s too resilient.”
He took a swig of the amber liquid and stared out at the passing city. “William Croft is fighting to protect his legacy. He thinks he is the ‘Protector’. He thinks he is better than his father.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. A new, darker plan formed in the twisted architecture of his mind.
“Cynthia,” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “Stop looking at the stock market. Stop looking at the wife’s stripper photos. I want you to go deeper.”
“How deep?” Cynthia asked.
“Graveyard deep,” Arthur said. “Look into ‘Project Nightingale.’ Look into the accident that killed William’s father. William is terrified of failure because his father was a failure. Find me the proof that the Croft bloodline is rotten, and I will break him psychologically.”
Cynthia smiled, the mercenary in her smelling blood. “I’ll start digging.”