“Ten million Moravian Kroners, Kezia. Directly into your personal account. Overnight.” Kezia narrowed her eyes into obsidian slits. Zivko, draped across a velvet chaise longue nearby, twitched an ear. Jaro dropped the iron, its heated sole hissing faintly against the ironing board before he caught it, his hand moving with the reflexes of a man accustomed to sudden, decisive action. The vintage silk dress lay crumpled across the polished parquetry where it had fallen. “A declaration of war, then,” Kezia murmured, her voice a silken whisper that seemed to chill the very air. She did not rise. She merely tilted her head, a gesture of regal disinterest that belied the sharp glint in her gaze. “Tomas, summon the Kolar legal counsel. Inform them they have thirty minutes to appear in the morning room with every contract, bank slip, and correspondence concerning the Hrubis scheme’s ‘Worldwide-Tech’ venture. I want copies. Now.” Tomas, still pale, nodded dumbly and stumbled out, the ledger clutched to his chest. Jaro moved to Kezia’s side, his massive frame eclipsing the morning light filtering through the stained-glass window. He knelt beside her chair, his strong hand gently taking hers. His gaze hardened into iron. “Kezia, this is… dangerous. They’re trying to sink us. Your name, your reputation…” “My reputation,” Kezia interrupted, curling her lip into a faint smirk, “died the hour my family’s empire went under. They can hardly spoil ash. Besides, if I must rot in a federal cell, I assure you, it will be in hand-tailored silk.” She patted his hand, a surprisingly tender gesture. “Do not fret, Jaro. This merely means I have to… exert myself slightly. A truly vexing inconvenience.” Before Jaro could reply, a raucous clamor erupted from the foyer. A clamor of boots, clicking shutters, and Osian Hrubis’s booming bluster tore through the foyer. “My dear Mrs. Kolar! Kezia! Such a pleasure! What a glorious day for Morava Port’s industrial future!” Osian waddled into the morning room, a barrel-chested opportunist in a straining pinstripe suit, followed by two hired heavies and a flock of news hounds. Osian beamed, a predatory shark’s grin that stretched his jowly face. “Gentlemen of the press! Behold the primary guarantor of our groundbreaking enterprise! Mrs. Kezia Kolar herself! A visionary providing ten million Kroners to drag Morava Port into modern glory!” Flash! Flash! Flash! The room erupted in a blinding strobe of light. A wiry correspondent with an oily mustache shoved past the guards, thrusting a lens inches from Kezia’s nose. “Mrs. Kolar! Did you personally underwrite this tech initiative? Can you guarantee the returns?” Before Kezia could even consider opening her mouth to issue a withering retort, Jaro moved. It was a blur of controlled, furious motion. Jaro rose, seized the correspondent’s lapel with one thick fist, and hoisted him clean off the rug like a sack of grain. “Get out,” Jaro’s voice was a low growl, devoid of its usual warmth, colder and sharper than any blade. The intruder squawked as his camera shattered against the parquetry. Jaro didn’t release him. Still carrying the man by the collar, Jaro hauled him through the foyer and threw him down the stone steps. The heavy oak front doors slammed shut behind him. The remaining newsmen froze. Osian Hrubis’s forced smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise, then calculating annoyance. “Now, Jaro, there’s no need for such… zeal. We are all partners here.” Just then, Milena Hrubis burst into the foyer, her hair wild, grease smudged across her cheek. She was holding a crudely drawn schematic. “Papa! Look at this! The interface schematics for the chrono-display unit! With that capital injection, we can buy the micro-lattice components from Kreskov!” She stood breathless, blind to the shaken pressmen and the splintered camera on the rug. Kezia watched Milena, a flicker of something akin to pity in her cold eyes. The girl was a useful idiot, too consumed by her fantastical contraptions to see the real machinations at play. “Jaro,” Kezia said, her voice cutting through the suddenly silent air like a finely sharpened blade. She gestured with a languid hand towards the shaken gathering. “Kindly escort our guests out. And when you return, prepare the Earl Grey. Strong, with a slice of lemon. We have work to do.” Jaro, his face still a mask of contained fury, nodded once. He turned to Osian Hrubis, his gaze promising swift retribution should he ever bring such a spectacle to Kezia’s doorstep again. Osian, for all his bluster, seemed to shrink slightly under Jaro’s intense stare. Osian ushered his press hounds backward out the entryway, casting a wary glare toward Kezia. Within minutes, the manor was quiet again, save for the distant murmur of Jaro’s instructions to the house staff and the occasional thud of books as Tomas’s legal team arrived. Kezia reclined amid folders, balance sheets, and bank drafts embossed with the Hrubis family crest. Zivko had stretched across the carpet beside her slippers. Jaro returned, a steaming pot of Earl Grey and a delicate porcelain cup on a silver tray. He placed it beside Kezia, the aroma of bergamot filling the air. He dropped to a velvet cushion beside her hem. “The paperwork has arrived, Kezia,” he said, his voice softer now, his anger receding, replaced by unwavering devotion. “Where do you want to begin?” Kezia took a sip of her tea, the warmth a pleasant contrast to the cold calculation in her mind. “Start with the enterprise charter. The registry filing. Bring me the names of every board director and every shell firm.” Kezia never lifted a page, barking page numbers at Tomas and the junior clerks from memory. Jaro refilled her cup and kneaded Zivko’s spine. By late afternoon, red light fell across the parlor rug. “There,” Kezia suddenly said, her voice sharp, cutting through the quiet hum of legal jargon. She pointed with a slender finger. Tomas, sweating, leaned in to see. “The ‘primary capital investor’ listed here for the Morava Port subsidiary… ‘Veridian Holdings.’ Do you see it?” Tomas squinted over his spectacles. “Yes, Kezia. A front registered last year in the Valdemar District. Why?” Kezia smiled, a slow, chilling curve of her lips that held no warmth. “Because that front drained the accounts of the Vancura docks four years ago,” she said. “Osian’s pet thieves ran the identical paper shell to strip my family. They have not even written new ledgers. How dull.” Before anyone could react, the shrill ring of the telephone shattered the silence. Jaro rose swiftly, his hand reaching for the receiver. He listened, his brow furrowing, his gaze darting to Kezia. His knuckles whitened around the handset. “Yes, Officer Vorlik. We understand,” Jaro said, his voice tight. He slowly replaced the receiver. He turned to Kezia, his face grim. “The ministry inspectorate,” Jaro said quietly. “They have an audit warrant. They arrive in one hour.”

The Ponzi Setup