slipped a hand inside the breast pocket of my custom Savile Row jacket. and withdrew a weighty cream envelope, bearing a red wax seal. It held two decisive documents.
One was a clear-title deed to a sprawling three-acre coastal estate in Santa Barbara, bought outright with cash in Richard Sterling’s name alone.
The other was the signed original note and deed of trust for Oakridge Manor—where I had once been told I was worthless.
“Has Marcus positioned his men?” I asked, running my thumb along the wax seal.
“The entire