The carriage swayed, a dark, lacquered box moving through the sleeping countryside. The rhythmic clatter of the horse's hooves on the road was the only sound.
Silence was a weapon in this family, Jason realized. And his wife, Alta, wielded it with surgical precision.
He had to break it. He wasn't here to be a passenger in a dead man's life. He was here to take the wheel.
"How is your father's mood, truly?" he asked. The question was a probe, a test shot into enemy territory. He wasn't making small talk; he was preparing for a hostile takeover meeting.
Alta didn't look at him. She stared out the window at the dark shapes of trees rushing past. "My father only has one mood: calculating."
Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "It is my brother you should worry about. Junior sees a devil in every shadow of my father's business."
She turned then, her cool blue eyes meeting his in the dim light of the carriage. "And he is not sure which side you stand on, Ezra."
The information was a gift. The battle lines were clear. The son was the moral liability. The father was the power broker. To win, Jason had to appeal to the father's pragmatism and neutralize the son's influence.
The familiar thrill of a high-stakes trade, of finding the weakness in a system, surged through him. He felt more alive in this dead man's body than he had in years.
The carriage slowed. Through the window, he saw them. Massive, wrought-iron gates, ornate and impossibly tall, swung open like the entrance to a king's fortress. Or a prison.
The estate, Kykuit, was a declaration of power written in stone and steel.
The carriage rolled to a stop before a grand stone mansion. It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a corporate headquarters.
A butler in perfect livery opened the door. "Mr. and Mrs. Prentice," he said, his voice devoid of expression. "They are waiting for you in the study."
The air in the study was colder than the autumn night outside.
A single lamp cast a pool of gold light on a vast mahogany desk, leaving the rest of the room in deep shadow. In a high-backed leather chair sat a man who looked less like a human being and more like a gaunt icon carved from stone.
John D. Rockefeller Sr.
He didn't move. He didn't have to. His stillness was a declaration of absolute power. His face was a mask of severe lines and papery skin, his eyes deep-set and chillingly observant. On the table next to him, within easy reach, sat a worn leather Bible. It looked less like an object of faith and more like a weapon.
Standing stiffly by the marble fireplace was a younger man, his face a storm of conflicted piety and resentment. John D. Rockefeller Jr. His disapproval was a physical force in the room.
This wasn't a family dinner. It was a trial.
Rockefeller Sr. didn't waste time on greetings. His voice was dry, like rustling paper. "Ezra."
He gestured to the newspaper that lay on his desk, the one with the octopus cartoon. "The government believes I am a thief. Miss Tarbell believes I am the devil."
His cold, unblinking eyes locked onto Jason. "As my son-in-law, and a lawyer, what do you believe I am?"
The question was a trap. A loyalty test. The old Ezra would have stammered, offering some weak, sycophantic platitude.
Jason saw the opening.
He met the old man's gaze without flinching. "They believe you are a dinosaur, sir."
John Jr. stiffened by the fireplace, a sharp intake of breath. Alta, standing near the door, remained perfectly still, but Jason could feel her surprise.
Rockefeller Sr.'s eyes narrowed, just a fraction. A flicker of interest.
Jason pressed his advantage. The passion in his voice was real—it was the passion of a born predator who had just been given the keys to the ultimate hunting ground.
"They attack Standard Oil because it's the biggest target they can see," he said, taking a step forward into the light. "But the future isn't about controlling one industry. That's a brute's game."
He could feel the old man's focus sharpening, his entire being zeroed in on him.
"The future is about financing all of them," Jason declared. "It's about controlling the flow of capital itself. They are fighting yesterday's war, sir. You should be preparing for tomorrow's."
A deep, profound silence filled the room. Jason had reframed the entire narrative—not from monopoly to charity, as the son would want, but from brute force to elegant, invisible control.
A glint of something that looked like appreciation sparked in the old man's eyes. He saw a peer. He saw a mind that understood power in its purest form.
But John Jr. could not stay silent. He stepped out of the shadows, his face flushed with righteous anger.
"This is cynical sophistry!" he snapped, his voice tight with outrage. "Our family name is being blackened, and you are advising him to find new ways to wield the same godless greed that caused this crisis in the first place!"
The battle line was drawn.
Jason turned to face his brother-in-law, a cold smile on his lips. "Morality is a luxury, Junior. Control is a necessity."
"Blasphemy!"
"Enough."
The word was quiet, but it cut through the room like a razor. Rockefeller Sr. raised a single, skeletal hand, and his son fell silent, his face a mask of frustration.
The old man's gaze returned to Jason, boring into him, weighing him, measuring him. The silence stretched on, thick with tension.
Jason knew talk was cheap. He had to give him something concrete. He had to prove his value, right now.
"Sir, the greatest threat to this family isn't the government," Jason said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's the market's own instability. Right now, there are arrogant men in New York, the Heinze brothers, who are about to make a catastrophic bet on a company called United Copper."
He was giving away the future. He was naming the catalyst for the Panic of 1907.
"Their scheme will fail," he continued, his voice certain. "And when it does, the panic will spread like a plague. Banks will fail. Fortunes will be wiped out overnight. New York will scream for a savior."
He leaned forward, locking eyes with the old patriarch. "But for a man who is prepared… for a family that has cash when everyone else is desperate… it won't be a crisis."
His voice was a cold, sharp blade. "It will be a fire sale."
"Monstrous," John Jr. whispered from the shadows, his voice thick with horror. "You are talking about capitalizing on the ruin of other men."
Rockefeller Sr. ignored his son as if he hadn't spoken. As if he wasn't even there.
His cold eyes remained locked on Jason. He saw the future Jason was painting, a landscape of chaos and opportunity.
Slowly, deliberately, the old man reached into his waistcoat pocket. His movements were precise, economical. He drew something out, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
A flash of silver caught the lamplight.
He placed a single, brand-new 1907 dime on the desk. With one long finger, he pushed it across the vast, polished mahogany surface. It slid silently, gleaming, until it stopped just in front of Jason's hand.
The gesture was a legend. A challenge. An investment.
"Words are wind, Ezra," John D. Rockefeller Sr. said, his voice a dead-cold whisper that promised empires and demanded blood.
"Show me a return."