Where There's A Will: Part 11

The first of today's triple drop

Chapter Eleven

Arnold’s guest suite lay in the farthest reaches of the west wing, a cavernous room of shadow and opulence, steeped in the old man’s unmistakable presence. It was a place Samson had known well, though never by choice. He had stayed here before, at Arnold’s behest, his visits always laced with reluctance and an unspoken distaste that sat heavy in his chest. The manor itself reeked of Arnold—his wealth, his corruption, his unrelenting dominion over the lives of those who fell within his orbit. And Samson had been one of them. Not just because of Arnold’s infamous appetites, the whisperings of his predilections that had been a source of scandal for years, but because of the suffocating weight of obligation, the time wasted in servitude to a man who had, in many ways, shaped his career.

And what a career it had been. Samson’s rise in the legal world had been nothing short of meteoric. Straight out of law school, he had been scooped up by one of the most exclusive corporate law firms in the country, his talents honed and weaponized in boardrooms and courtrooms alike. It wasn’t long before he had struck out on his own, forming a powerhouse firm with two other high-profile attorneys. But no matter how high he climbed, no matter how many victories he secured, the specter of Arnold loomed over him, his influence laced through every connection, every success. It was a hollow triumph, a poisoned chalice. Arnold’s tendrils, slick and insidious, had wrapped around Samson’s accomplishments, reminding him always that he had never truly been free.

But now, Arnold was dead.

Samson had come here not for grief, not for closure, but because the old man had summoned him one last time from beyond the grave. Could he truly be free now? Or had Arnold, in his twisted brilliance, found a way to ensure his control extended even past death?

These thoughts gnawed at him as he stepped into the suite. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and musty fabric. Thick drapes hung like specters beside gloomy windows. He had only been in the room briefly before dinner to drop his travel case, and sure enough, it still sat on the polished mahogany bureau, untouched. But as his gaze swept the room, it caught on something new—an object placed with unmistakable intent.

A tape recorder.

It lay atop a pillow on the massive canopy bed, its black casing stark against the crisp white linen.

Someone had been here. Someone had left it.

Samson strode forward, his large hands closing around the device, fingers running absently over its cool plastic surface. He didn’t need to press play to know what it contained. This was Arnold’s final game. A last taunt, a final manipulation, orchestrated with the same precision as everything else the old man had ever done.

And yet, the thought of simply ignoring it, of walking away unburdened, seemed like a foolish fantasy. 

With a sigh, he set the recorder back down and crossed the room to the liquor cart, where a gleaming crystal decanter sat waiting. He poured himself a measure of brandy, the amber liquid catching the dim light as he raised it to his lips. The warmth of it bloomed across his tongue, sliding down his throat like fire. He let his gaze drift to the fireplace opposite him—a monolith of carved marble, its edges exquisitely detailed with cherubs and vines, an ostentatious display of wealth and power. The flames within burned hot and restless, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

He braced one arm against the mantle, leaning in, watching the dance of the firelight as it painted his sharp, handsome features in shades of gold and bronze. It was then that his mind drifted—not to Arnold, not to the game that awaited him, but to someone else.

Charlie.

Their first meeting had been two years ago, in a gym in Manhattan, an unassuming encounter that had, in retrospect, altered the course of both their lives. Samson had been mid-workout, sweat glistening on his bronzed skin, the heavy scent of metal and exertion thick in the air. It was Charlie who had approached him, his Londoner’s accent cutting through the noise with an easy charm.

“Mind spotting me?”

The request had caught Samson off guard. At six-foot-five, with an imposing physique carved from years of weight training and discipline, he was used to being admired, even feared. People rarely approached him without hesitation. But Charlie had been different.

He had grinned up at Samson from the bench press, his muscular build poised beneath the weighted bar. Samson had stepped forward without thinking, his hands hovering beneath the bar as Charlie pushed through his reps, his arms flexing, veins standing out against his skin like taut cords. He couldn't help but find himself drawn to his physical presence, more so than any other man he'd encountered. It also helped that he had a personality. 

In fact, the banter had been easy and effortless.

Charlie had mentioned some reality show he was filming on Fire Island, a competition for singles, something ridiculous and manufactured. When Samson had asked why he was in New York and not basking on a beach with a cocktail, Charlie had smirked, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Because the show’s about as real as the tits on half the contestants.”

Samson had laughed—genuinely, freely, something rare for him.

That was Charlie’s magic. He had this way of dismantling the walls Samson kept so firmly in place, of making everything feel light, effortless. The reality show had come and gone, a stepping stone, nothing more. Charlie had leveraged it into a green card, carving out a space for himself in the world of acting. And Samson had been all too happy to help, slipping easily into the role of benefactor, protector, something more.

A modest apartment on the Upper West Side, paid for without hesitation. Connections in the industry, doors opened with a mere phone call. He had the money, the means, and he wanted to see Charlie succeed.

He told himself it was just business. Just friendship.

But deep down, Samson knew better.

It hadn’t taken long for Charlie to sniff out the golden thread running through Samson’s world—the shadowy, omnipresent influence of Arnold, the enigmatic old vulture whose wealth had its talons sunk deep into the foundation of Samson’s success. It was like a scent in the air, a lurking presence beneath the smooth, polished exterior of Samson’s life. And once Charlie had caught wind of it, the gears in that wickedly sharp mind of his had started turning. 

It had been his idea, of course. Samson, ever the controlled, disciplined one, would never have conceived of something so audacious, so shamelessly bold. But Charlie was different. Charlie had no patience for the slow, dignified crawl of ambition. He was brash, irreverent, and impulsive, a man who saw what he wanted and reached for it without a second thought. And so what began as an offhand remark—half jest, half fantasy—slowly coalesced into something tangible. A scheme, at first ludicrous, then plausible, and finally, utterly inevitable.

The story was simple, airtight, and draped in just enough tragic glamour to be irresistible: Charlie would assume the identity of Arnold’s long-lost nephew, the illegitimate son of Arnold’s disowned sister, Hester. A woman erased from the family history, cast out into the cold, and left to die penniless in some miserable corner of Essex. A forgotten relic of disgrace, one that Arnold, in his waning years, might be inclined to rectify. And why not? Blood was blood, after all, and wasn’t it far more fitting for the old man’s empire to pass to the rightful heir—the last shred of his true lineage—rather than to that insipid, groveling bastard Gibson?

But the real stroke of genius? Charlie fit the bill perfectly.

Samson had seen it himself—the way Arnold’s cold, calculating eyes always lingered a little too long on men like Charlie. Young. Beautiful. Carved from the kind of effortless masculine perfection that men like Arnold spent fortunes trying to buy. The sumptuous musculature, the golden tan, the full lips that curled so easily into that careless, devil-may-care smirk. It would be easy—laughably easy—for Charlie to slip into the role, to wrap Arnold around his little finger, to become the heir apparent by sheer force of charm.

And so, with forged documents in hand and a gleam of mischief in his cerulean eyes, Charlie had walked straight through the gates of Arnold’s estate and into history.

“Uncle Arnold!”

He had declared it with all the radiant enthusiasm of a soldier returning from war, striding into the manor’s grand foyer like a prince reclaiming his birthright. The white T-shirt he wore clung to every sculpted inch of his pectorals, dampened ever so slightly with the sheen of summer heat, the taut fabric stretching obscenely over his rippling torso. And beneath his low-slung gray sweatpants, the unmistakable, brazen outline of his heavy manhood pressed through the fabric, brushing against Arnold’s bony hip as they embraced. It was a performance of a lifetime, and Charlie had played it with a reckless, seductive ease that was as dangerous as it was intoxicating.

“It's your long-lost nephew, Charlie. All the way from merry old London,” he had grinned, his accent thickening just enough to sell the illusion, to make himself exotic, different, a piece of Arnold’s past made flesh.

The moment Samson’s phone rang that evening, he knew.

Arnold’s voice was cool, smooth, unreadable—like the tip of a blade pressed just against the skin.

“I had an unexpected visitor today,” he said. A pause. A measured breath. “I’d like you to… look into him for me.” 

And so the wheels had begun to turn.

With Samson’s quiet approval, Arnold had let Charlie in—cautiously at first, warily studying the charming stranger who claimed to be his blood. But Charlie, ever the master manipulator, had worked his magic like a seasoned actor slipping into his role. He had been gracious, humble, disarmingly sweet.

“Oh, Uncle, I don’t need your money,” he would insist with an easy grin, nursing a glass of brandy by the firelight. “Just your love is enough for me.”

Refusing assistance. Declining gifts. Playing the part of the devoted nephew who wanted only family, never fortune. And Arnold, despite his suspicions, had begun to believe.

So much so that, when the time had come to revisit his will, to Samson's shock, Arnold had been the one to make the suggestion to pass it all to Charlie.

But something had changed.

Somewhere along the line, Arnold had stripped Charlie’s name from his legacy, severed the tether that had seemed so securely fastened. And now, as Samson drained the last of his sherry, his eyes fixed on the cursed tape recorder lying on the bed, he could feel the old man’s grip tightening around him once more.

Even in death, Arnold owned them.

He cursed under his breath, running a hand through his dark hair. Could he ignore it? Pretend the tape didn’t exist, refuse to hear the final pronouncement of a man who had spent his life orchestrating Samson’s downfall? But what if it was worse than he imagined? What if Arnold had left behind a grenade, the pin already pulled, waiting to obliterate everything Samson had built? The ultimate act of domination—controlling him from the grave.

There was a knock at the door. “Samson?” The handle turned and Charlie entered, the firelight dancing across his handsome face.

“Did you find Julian?” Samson said, putting his glass on the mantle. “Did you warn him?” 

Charlie exhaled, running a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his sharp jawline. His usually confident swagger was dimmed, his shoulders tense beneath the fitted fabric of his sweater. The dim firelight flickered in his eyes, casting restless shadows over his sharp cheekbones, his full lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

"I looked in most of the rooms," he muttered, pacing slightly, his movements feline, restless. "Even checked the garage. I thought for sure he’d be in there. But the office—it needs a key card to get in. I tried to peer inside, but I couldn’t see a damn thing through the glass. It was all blacked out. Someone doesn’t want us looking in there."

Samson, standing by the fireplace, let the weight of those words settle over him. He could feel the heat from the flames licking at the side of his face, warming his skin but doing nothing to thaw the icy coil of unease in his gut. He knew what Charlie was implying.

"Gone," he said finally, his voice a low, measured rumble. "Just like Ryley."

Charlie turned, arching a brow, that hint of skeptical bravado creeping back into his expression. "He could’ve left, like Eddie said."

Samson shook his head, his fingers tightening into a fist at his side. "No," he said firmly. "Arnold wasn’t one to spare his punishments. Or his rewards. If Ryley was supposed to be here, he’d still be here. And Julian? No. This isn’t a coincidence. Something happened to both of them. Like Brent in the gym. Something bad." His voice was quieter now, but no less certain. A shiver of something dark crept up his spine.

Charlie let out a breath, his gaze flicking to the bed, to the small, unassuming object sitting there on the pristine linens.

The tape recorder. 

His fingers reached for it instinctively, curiosity burning behind his striking  eyes.

"Have you played this yet?" he asked, already picking it up.

Samson stepped forward, his body tensing. "Charlie, wait—"

But it was too late.

Charlie’s thumb pressed down.

A burst of static crackled through the quiet room, a hiss of white noise, followed by the slow, deliberate intake of breath.

Then, the voice.

"Don’t frown, Samson."

Arnold.

His voice, rich and slow, like the purr of a well-fed predator. Even dead, the bastard has a way of making himself heard.

"If anything, you ought to be elated at having rid of me—your generous benefactor and employer—once and for all." A pause, weighted with amusement, indulgent and knowing. "Not that I am accusing you of anything. No, my dear Samson, you are many things—calculating, obstinate, gullible, duplicitous—but you are not a murderer."

Samson inhaled sharply through his nose, stepping closer, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel the pressure in his temples. Charlie was watching him, his expression unreadable, but his fingers remained curled around the recorder, holding it steady as Arnold’s voice spilled out, thick with malice, a ghost reaching from beyond the grave to tighten its fingers around Samson’s throat.

"To you, Samson, I leave you with what you’ve always desired from me: freedom to make your own choices. A tabula rasa, if you will."

A cold dread slithered through Samson’s chest, curdling into something heavier.

"I’ve set into motion, through Paul, a hostile takeover of your law firm."

Samson’s breath hitched. His law firm. His.

"I have also notified the Harvard legal society of your, shall we say, ethical lapses."

He could feel his pulse pounding at his temple, his fingers curling, nails biting into his palm.

"Your client list, many of whom are my own personal friends, colleagues, and associates, has been expunged and transferred over into more… capable hands."

"That fucking bastard," Samson growled under his breath, his voice rough with barely restrained fury. His hands had curled into fists at his sides, the tendons straining in his forearms.

"I have also taken the liberty of draining your accounts," Arnold continued, and Samson could hear the pleasure in his voice now, the slow, serpentine delight as he twisted the knife deeper, "and putting a lien against your stupendously expensive penthouse, which, if I recall correctly, used to belong to me."

His stomach twisted. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in.

"Tomorrow morning, you can walk out of this manor a free man. Free of any obligation—fiducial, moral, or otherwise—to chart your own path, make your own choices. This is my ultimate gift to you, Samson."

Samson exhaled, a deep, shaking breath, his vision hazed with anger, with disbelief, with the unbearable realization that Arnold had won. Even from the grave. Even dead, he had orchestrated Samson’s downfall with the precision of a surgeon, stripping him of everything, leaving him naked in the wreckage of what had once been a life built on power, prestige, and control.

"All you have to do is make the correct choice and ignore those who would deceive you."

A final pause. A shift in tone. Something quieter.

"And remember, dear Samson, before I am laid to my final rest, side by side with my ancestors… I will be watching."

A cruel chuckle.

"These walls have eyes, Samson. Choose wisely. Act accordingly."

Click.

Silence.

Samson’s chest rose and fell heavily. His fingers twitched at his sides. Charlie was staring at him, his jaw slack, his own face betraying the rare flicker of something beyond amusement—beyond that usual devil-may-care confidence.

Arnold’s last gift had not been wealth, nor power, nor the means to carve out a new future. No. It had been destruction, meticulously wrapped and sealed with a taunting bow. The final nail in the coffin of Samson’s legacy.

He should have known.

"We have to find that fortune, Charlie," he said, finally, after a long, weighted silence. His voice was dark, rough with rage barely held at bay. His fists were still shaking, his knuckles white.

But Charlie—Charlie wasn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes had flicked toward the ceiling, as if seeing something that hadn’t been there before, his mind suddenly latching onto something unseen.

His lips parted.

"Did you hear that last part?" he murmured, rising from the bed, his movements slow, measured. "Final rest. With my ancestors."

His gaze snapped back to Samson, and this time, his expression wasn’t uncertainty. It was exhilaration.

"You were right."

Samson, still lost in the weight of his own downfall, frowned. "What—?"

Charlie grinned, stepping closer, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. "It’s a clue, Samson."

Samson exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. His mind was still reeling, trying to process the full obliteration of his carefully constructed life.

Charlie grabbed his arm, fingers pressing against the hard muscle beneath his shirt. "The mausoleum." His voice was urgent now, his body thrumming with energy. "You were right. It has to be in the mausoleum!!"