The dime was a cold, heavy weight in his pocket, a promise and a threat all at once.
The carriage ride home from Kykuit was a journey through a vacuum. The rhythmic clatter of the horse's hooves was the only sound, a mocking metronome counting down the seconds he had to prove himself.
Alta stared out the window, a perfect silhouette in the moonlight. She hadn't said a word since they left her father's study. To Jason, this silence wasn't peaceful. It was a void he had to fill with data. He couldn't afford to have a neutral, unreadable variable this close to him.
He broke the silence. "Well, that was bracing."
Alta turned her head slowly, her expression unreadable in the gloom. In the reflection on the glass, he saw their faces float over the dark, rushing landscape. Two pale ghosts, trapped in the same box but a world apart.
"You surprised him," she said. Her voice was low, without inflection. It was a statement of fact, not a compliment.
"Good," Jason replied.
"No one speaks to my father that way," she continued, her eyes fixed on his. "Not even Junior. They either fear him or flatter him. You did neither."
This was the opening he needed. He pressed, keeping his tone casual. "And what did you think?"
She paused, and for a moment, he thought she would retreat back into her icy shell. But then she spoke, and the words she chose were as sharp and clear as cut glass.
"My father respects power, not men," she said. "Tonight, for the first time, he saw power in you."
It wasn't a compliment. It was a warning. It was the entire rulebook for this family, delivered in a single sentence. Fail to project power, and you cease to exist.
The rest of the ride passed in silence, but it was a different kind of silence now. It was charged. Understood.
When they arrived home, a servant opened the carriage door. Alta stepped out without a backward glance and disappeared into the grand, dark house. Jason was left alone on the cobblestones, the weight of the impossible task crashing down on him.
He had made a promise to the most powerful man in America. And he had to deliver it using the life and resources of a weak, forgotten man.
He went straight to Ezra's study. The room smelled of failure—stale cigar smoke, old paper, and mediocrity. He didn't turn on the main lights, instead flicking on a single green-glass banker's lamp on the desk. It cast long, distorted shadows across the room.
He needed capital. Leverage. An asset.
He tore through the desk drawers first. They were filled with dusty case files, letters of polite rejection from more prestigious law firms, and unpaid bills from tailors and private clubs. Nothing.
Frustration began to burn in his chest. This body, this life, was a financial desert.
His eyes scanned the room, landing on a bookshelf filled with thick, untouched law books. It was the perfect hiding place for a man like Ezra. Predictable. Timid. He ran his hand along the spines, feeling for any irregularity. His fingers brushed against a book that was slightly recessed. He pulled it out.
Behind it was a small, black lockbox, covered in a thin layer of dust.
His heart gave a hopeful leap. Maybe the pathetic Ezra had a secret stash. A nest egg. He found a letter opener on the desk and jammed it into the lock, forcing it with a sharp crack.
He threw the lid open.
Inside was not a fortune. It was an insult. A small stack of cash, maybe three thousand dollars. Next to it was a thin ledger book bound in cheap leather.
He snatched the ledger, his hope turning to cold anger. He flipped it open. It was a meticulous record of Ezra Prentice's stock trades. Dozens of small, cowardly bets. A few shares of Union Pacific here, a timid play on Pennsylvania Railroad there.
Almost all of them were losses. Ezra was a gambler with no nerve, always buying high and selling low. A sheep.
Jason was about to throw the pathetic book across the room when his eyes caught a name and a telephone number scrawled on the inside cover.
Mr. Finch. Merrill & Finch Brokerage.
A cold, predatory smile spread across Jason's face. The money was useless. The ledger was a record of failure. But that name, that number… that was everything.
He couldn't win with Ezra's money. It was pocket change.
But he could win with Ezra's access.
He slammed the useless ledger shut and walked to the telephone on the corner of the desk. He picked up the receiver and gave the number to the operator. The line clicked and buzzed, a fragile electrical connection bridging this quiet, tomb-like study to the roaring, beating heart of Wall Street.
A man's voice, brisk and impatient, came on the line. "Finch."
"Mr. Finch, this is Ezra Prentice."
The broker's tone immediately shifted to one of casual condescension. "Prentice! Good morning to you. Calling with another tip from the club? What are we losing money on today?"
The old Ezra would have stammered. The new Ezra's voice was devoid of all emotion, a flat line of pure command.
"Finch," he said. "Liquidate my entire portfolio. Now."
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. The only sound was a faint crackle. "Prentice? Ezra, is that you? Are you serious? Your Union Pacific shares are…"
Jason cut him off. "I don't care. Sell it all."
"But—"
"Then," Jason continued, his voice dropping lower, colder. "I want you to secure as much margin as my account will allow. And you will use every last dollar to short United Copper."
The broker gasped. It was a real, audible intake of breath.
"Short United Copper? My God, man, are you insane?" Finch's voice was a frantic squawk. "The Heinze brothers have it in a corner! They're about to squeeze every short-seller on the street to death. They'll ruin you! You'll get a margin call by lunch!"
Jason leaned back in Ezra's creaking leather chair. He pictured the chaos on the trading floor, the shouting men, the storm of money changing hands. He felt at home.
The risk was the point. The panic in the broker's voice was confirmation that he was aiming at the right target.
He let the silence hang for a moment, enjoying the broker's frantic, sputtering protests. Then he spoke, his voice as calm and final as a judge's sentence.
"The Heinzes are already dead," he said. "They just don't know it yet."
He placed the receiver back on the hook. The click echoed in the silent room.
The bet was placed. The first shot was fired.