Page 37 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

“He’s in the dark right now,” Jake said softly. “When I lost mine to that IED, I tried to burn every bridge I had. I wanted to be alone in the wreckage because I didn’t think I was worth saving anymore. Dog isn’t yelling at you, Margaret. He’s yelling at the man he thinks he used to be.”

“Regardless of his motivations,” Margaret replied, her tone unyielding, “my role in this ‘trial run’ has concluded. My presence is a distraction he cannot afford, and quite frankly, a liability I no longer wish to carry.”

She turned her gaze to Warden. The big man looked shattered. The guilt he’d been stockpiling since the meadow was visible in the slump of his shoulders.

“Warden,” she said, using his callsign with a distance that made him flinch. “I am ready to leave. Please, take me to my children.”

Warden rubbed a hand over his face. “Margaret, I should have been the one. It was my land. My grandfather’s trap. I’m going back to the cabin. I need to clear the rest of that property. I need to make sure there isn’t another ghost waiting to bite someone.”

He wasn’t just talking about traps; he was talking about himself. He was retreating again, seeking the silence of the Maine woods to bury his own failures.

“I will stay here,” Jake said, his tone firm, settling the matter. “The bounty didn’t die with Charles. It’s still live on the dark web, and Dog is a sitting duck in this bed. I’ll watch his six, even if he tries to throw me out of the room, too. He needs someone who knows how to handle a man who’s fighting his own ghost.”

Margaret gave Jake a single, stiff nod of appreciation. She didn’t offer a message for Dog. She didn’t ask Jake to check on him. She simply turned to Enzo and Thorn.

“Gentlemen? If you are to be my escort, I would like to depart immediately. It has been a very long day.”

Enzo and Thorn exchanged a glance, then moved into position on either side of her: two lethal shadows for a woman made of porcelain.

As they walked toward the elevators, the clinical smell of the hospital began to fade, replaced by the scent of the cold night air rushing in from the lobby. Margaret kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. She didn’t look back at the door to Room 412.

She thought of Emily’s laugh. She thought of Charles Jr.’s quiet intensity. They were at Mountain View Farms. They were safe. They were the only mission that mattered now.

The Emery part of her soul tried to rattle the bars of its new cage, crying out for the man who had kissed her knuckles and promised her she wasn’t decorative.

Margaret took a breath, felt the cold steel of her resolve, and silenced the cry. She was going home to her children. And as for Barkley Berkshire, he had gotten exactly what he asked for.

He was alone. And so was she.

25 - DOG

The view from the top floor of the Berkshire Private Surgical Wing was worth millions, a panoramic sweep of the Charles River glittering under a crisp Boston sun. The wing had been established a quarter-century earlier, funded by his grandfather’s generosity, creating an enduring legacy designed to provide the family with exclusive, state-of-the-art medical care. To anyone else, it would have been a sanctuary of healing. To Barkley “Dog” Berkshire, it was a high-end cage.

He lay staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight enough to crack bone. The room smelled of expensive lilies along with the sharp, underlying tang of surgical-grade antiseptic. It was a sterile, controlled environment, exactly the opposite of the chaos he had lived in for the better part of a decade.

He shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t set off the rhythmic throb in his lower leg, and his brain, in a cruel betrayal, sent a signal to flex a foot that no longer existed. The phantom sensation was maddening, a ghost of his former self mocking him from the biohazard bin where his career had been tossed two weeks ago.

Operator. Medic. Failure. The words marched in time with his heartbeat.

A soft, measured rhythm came from the corner of the room, a quiet, almost imperceptible cadence that Dog recognized without needing to look up. Jake’s steps were smooth, controlled, almost natural, so quiet most people would not even guess he was not walking on two flesh-and-bone legs. Dog’s chest tightened at the sound. That quiet confidence, that ease of movement, was a reminder of what he had lost and the bitterness that tangled with it.

“You’re doing it again, Doc,” Jake said, his voice flat. “Staring at the drywall like you’re trying to bore a hole through it with your mind. It’s not working. The wall is winning.”

Dog didn’t turn his head. “I’m assessing the perimeter, Jake. Leave it alone.”

“You’re not assessing anything. You’re holding a one-man wake for your ego.” Jake stood up from the designer armchair, the carbon fiber of his own prosthetic clicking with intentional volume. He walked to the edge of the bed, looming over Dog with the kind of unimpressed stare only a fellow SEAL could manage. “The doctors say you’re stable. The physical therapist has been here three times today, and you’ve sent her out every time with that ‘aristocratic prick’ voice you use when you’re hiding. Enough.”

“I’ll start PT when I’m ready,” Dog snapped, finally meeting Jake’s eyes.

“You’ll start when I drag you there,” Jake countered raising an eyebrow. “I’ve been down this road, Barkley. I spent six months trying to convince myself I was half a man because I left a foot in the dirt. You know what I realized? I was still the same man; I just had to learn to walk different. You’re a healer. You’re a scientist. Start healing yourself before I have to do it for you.”

The door opened with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Will Berkshire stepped in, looking every bit the billionaire financier in a tailored charcoal suit. He carried a leather briefcase and a look of cautious optimism that Dog found physically exhausting.

Will shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, his hands briefly tightening into fists before he relaxed them. He cast a quick, uncertain glance at Jake, then down at the bandaged stump at the end of the bed. His eyes flickered with unspoken pain as he searched for the right words. Finally, he cleared his throat and said with measured caution, “Barkley. You look alert. That’s an improvement.”

“I’m a Berkshire, Will. We’re always alert for the next market crash,” Dog said, the sarcasm sharp and defensive.

Will ignored the bite and pulled up a chair. “I’ve spent the morning on the phone with the insurance adjusters for the Monterey site. Between your personal trust and the arson payout, the funding for the rebuild is fully secured. We don’t need a dime of outside capital.”