Chapter Sixty-Seven: gone
The winter that year came early and hard, turning the waters of the Hudson River into a jagged sheet of grey ice. The lawns of the estate were covered in deep, heavy snow that muffled the sounds of the outside world. Inside the mansion, the fires were kept burning day and night, but a cold stillness had settled into the long hallways. It was a stillness that no amount of wood or coal could warm.
Alexander’s father had spent the last two months in the west wing of the house. The tall, powerful man who had once ruled the city with a single word had grown very small and very quiet. His voice, which used to boom like thunder across the corporate boardrooms, was now nothing more than a soft, raspy whisper.
It happened on a cold Tuesday midnight. The house was dead
