Chapter 3 - Sins of the Fathers
Grace Carter arrived at the Vale estate at precisely seven-fifty-five the following morning.
Her right hand was wrapped in heavy elastic bandages, hidden beneath the cuff of her gray cotton sweater.
She walked through the iron gates with her chin up, determined not to show weakness.
When she unlocked the side door of the west wing, she found Dominic standing at the island in the vast marble kitchen.
He was already dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, sipping black coffee while reviewing financial ledgers.
He looked up the moment her boots touched the tile.
"You are five minutes early."
"I have a schedule to keep, Mr. Vale."
"Not with a fractured metacarpal, you don't."
Grace stopped by the pantry door, her expression tightening.
"It is just a sprain."
"Arthur Vance called me at midnight after speaking with the ring physician."
"The preliminary examination indicates a hairline fracture."
"You are not touching a single piece of silver in this house today."
Grace stepped forward, frustration cracking her usually calm voice.
"I don't need your charity, Dominic."
It was the first time in eleven months she had called him by his first name.
Dominic didn't reprimand her.
He simply set his porcelain cup down with a soft click.
"Insisting on ruining your body for a corrupt promoter is not independence, Grace."
"It is negligence."
Before Grace could fire back, the rhythmic tapping of a wooden cane echoed down the long hallway.
Eleanor Vale stepped into the kitchen.
Seventy-nine years old, sharp-eyed, with silver hair piled high and an emerald brooch pinned to her collar.
She looked at Grace's wrapped hand, then turned her piercing gaze on Dominic.
"Why is my best housekeeper standing in the kitchen looking like she went twelve rounds with a freight train?"
Dominic sighed quietly.
"Because she fought on an unsanctioned card in the docklands last night."
Eleanor stopped leaning on her cane and stared at Grace in genuine astonishment.
"You box?"
Grace looked at the polished floor.
"I used to train as an amateur, ma'am."
Eleanor looked at Dominic, a faint smirk touching her lips.
"You've had a trained boxer polishing my tea sets for nearly a year and only noticed yesterday?"
"I don't pry into my staff's evening hobbies, Eleanor."
"Clearly, you should."
Eleanor turned back to Grace, her tone softening with genuine concern.
"Why are you taking beatings in basements, child?"
"My father, Michael Carter, needs spinal decompression surgery on Friday."
"The hospital requires a forty-thousand-dollar deposit that insurance refused to authorize."
Eleanor froze the moment the name left Grace's mouth.
Her hand tightened on the polished brass handle of her cane until her knuckles turned white.
"Did you say Michael Carter?"
Grace frowned, noticing the sudden change in the older woman's demeanor.
"Yes."
"He used to work as an electrician before his back gave out."
Eleanor stared at the floor for several seconds, her usual sharp wit entirely gone.
Before she could speak, Grace's phone buzzed loudly against the marble counter.
It was Frank Dalton.
Grace answered on speaker at Dominic's silent gesture.
"Grace, you need to get down to the gym right now."
"I told you, Frank, my hand is damaged."
"I don't care about your hand."
"Someone wants to say hello."
A tired, raspy voice came through the receiver.
"Grace? Sweetheart, please don't be angry."
Grace felt her stomach drop.
"Dad? Why are you at Frank's gym?"
Michael Carter let out a painful, ragged breath over the line.
"Frank and I have known each other for thirty years, Grace."
"I came down here to settle the ledger."
Frank’s voice cut back in, smooth and predatory.
"Your father borrowed twenty thousand dollars from me five months ago for his initial consultations."
"With penalties, late fees, and training costs, your debt stands at seventy-eight thousand."
"If you don't fight on Friday, your father stays in my office until the deposit is wired."
Dominic reached across the counter and tapped the red disconnect button on the screen.
His eyes were as cold as winter steel.
"Arthur Vance has already subpoenaed Dalton's business accounts."
Grace trembled with anger.
"My father never told me he borrowed from Frank."
"He let me believe I was earning that money on my own."
Dominic pulled a legal folder from his briefcase and slid it across the marble toward her.
"Look at page four."
Grace opened the folder with her uninjured left hand.
The bank audit showed a wire transfer of thirty thousand dollars into Frank Dalton's gym account four months ago.
The memo line read: Private Medical Advance — Michael Carter.
Grace shook her head in confusion.
"My dad said he only took twenty thousand."
"Where did the other thirty thousand come from?"
Dominic pointed to the issuing corporate entity at the bottom of the wire receipt.
The name was printed in clear black ink: Vale Athletic Holdings.
Grace slowly looked up from the paper, her eyes wide with shock and betrayal.
"Vale?"
"You own this company?"
"No," Dominic said firmly.
"Vale Athletic Holdings was dissolved twelve years ago after my father died."
"Someone reopened that account four years ago using our family's old commercial registration."
Eleanor Vale stepped forward, her voice trembling with age and buried grief.
"It wasn't Dominic who opened it."
Both Dominic and Grace turned to look at the matriarch.
Eleanor looked at Grace with deep sorrow in her eyes.
"Michael Carter didn't quit professional boxing thirty years ago because he lost his passion."
Grace felt the room spinning.
"Then why did he stop?"
Eleanor gripped her cane and looked her nephew in the eye.
"Because thirty years ago, your father, Julian Vale, paid Michael Carter fifty thousand dollars to take a dive in the tenth round of the regional championship."
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"Michael took the fall, destroyed his reputation, and ruined his spine."
"And my husband used that fixed fight to launder four million dollars into the Moretti syndicate."
