“Your father would have wanted us united.”

At a quarter to eleven, Brandon walked through the arched doorway with a thin black leather folder under his arm.

He pulled a wooden dining chair up beside the sofa and cleared his throat loudly before sitting down.

Victoria picked a gold fountain pen up off the tea tray and laid it neatly next to the folder.

“We had a long talk with Arthur Vance’s junior associate yesterday afternoon,” Victoria said, sliding the leather folder toward me.

“The corporate structure of Sterling Construction is weighed down with old tax liabilities your father never took the time to sort out.”