Back in the brownstone, the silence of the parlor felt heavy. I knew Nico was still upstairs, seething, probably trying to dig up some phantom proof against me. Uncle Sal Callahan was at the antique bar, slowly polishing a glass, his eyes distant.
The true weapon, I realized, wasn’t a gun or a forged document. It was the truth, broadcast for everyone to hear.
Our fathers had installed the intercom system in the 1980s. It was old, clunky, but still worked. Microphones were hidden in every major room, connected to a central console in the study. They’d used it for internal communication, for keeping tabs on the perimeter, for listening to rivals when they visited.
I walked into the study and activated the system. A soft hum filled the room. I dialed Eli Gable’s private office line, knowing he would be there, waiting for his plan to unfold.
It rang once, twice. Then a smooth, confident voice answered.
“Gable,” he said, already sounding smug.
“Eli, it’s Leo,” I said, keeping my voice calm, almost defeated. “You win. Nico’s furious. He’s talking about cutting me out completely, making me disappear. I need to know what to do.”
A short, dry chuckle came through the line.
“Ah, Leo. Just as I predicted. Always so predictable, these young hotheads. Nico’s a fool, really.”
My fingers moved swiftly over the intercom panel. I toggled a switch, routing the live audio feed from my phone directly to the parlor speakers. Nico and Uncle Sal were both in there.
“Fool?” I prompted, my voice still carrying the false note of desperation.
“Of course,” Gable purred, unaware his words were now echoing through the entire safehouse. “He always has been. So easy to manipulate. Just give him a little flattery, feed him a few fake ledgers showing you, Leo, taking a little off the top. He practically did all the dirty work for me.”
In the parlor, a gasp. It was Uncle Sal.
“He never questioned a thing. Believed every word. All that talk of ‘loyalty’ and ‘family legacy’—it’s just noise to hot-headed fools like Nico. So easy to make him think you were the thief.”
Gable paused, savoring his triumph. “And now, the brownstone will be mine. For a song. He thinks he’s seizing power, but he’s just clearing the way for me to declare the property abandoned.”
The silence on Gable’s end was filled only by the crackle of the phone line. In the parlor, I could imagine the scene. Nico, surely hearing every word, frozen.
“So,” Gable concluded, his voice dripping with condescension, “what was it you wanted to know, Leo? How to disappear? How to make yourself scarce before Nico does something… regrettable?”
I didn’t answer. I just let the silence hang, letting Gable’s words continue to resonate through the entire safehouse.
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