Morrie Finkelstein sat at his desk. A triumphant smile was plastered across his face. This was going to be his year, Finkelstein’s year. The year that he proved he could make more money than any other store in the city. He would finally be number one, exactly where he belonged.

Everything was falling into place. He’d enjoyed seeing Cecelia Highton-Smith begging him to leave her suppliers alone. Not likely. Morrie had revelled in his game of Chinese Whispers. The Highton’s renovation had only ever been a couple of weeks behind but Morrie couldn’t help spreading some rumours that he thought they had ‘problems’. Highton’s couldn’t keep people locked into contracts for ever, could they? He’d made some interesting contacts in the past few months at City Hall too, and he couldn’t believe how easy it had been to convince that stupid builders’ foreman to make some extra cash. Morrie frowned as he recalled an uncomfortable moment earlier in the day; when he met Cecelia Highton-Smith at the store, that young idiot walked right up and said hello. The man was getting a little above his station, Morrie thought to himself. He needed to terminate that arrangement – and soon.

Framed photographs of Morrie’s forebears lined the walls of his office. Abe Finkelstein would have had it all if Horace Highton hadn’t reneged on their deal at the last minute. Morrie unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a small tin box with charred corners. He sat it on the desk and turned the tiny key. A faded scrap of paper was all that remained of Abe Finkelstein’s worldly goods. Morrie’s father and grandfather had passed it down through the family, their proof that the Hightons were never to be trusted.

Morrie scanned the paper. Half of a letter, horribly smudged and torn down the middle. But Morrie knew what it meant.

I cannot believe

the events that have unfolded

To have all that I have cared

snatched away from me

It is the ultimate act of betrayal

and cannot be forgiven

Horace . . . my trusted aide

my friend and confidant

never again . . . such evil

It was Finkelstein family folklore that Horace Highton had signed the papers at the bank on his own, cutting Abe out of the deal. Morrie’s great-grandfather had been caught completely off guard and the poor man had a breakdown and spent a couple of months in a mental asylum. When he got out of the hospital, Abe found the land on Park Avenue and a wealthy backer, and started his own store. He had married a sturdy lass called Marjory Tannenbaum, had two children, and then died in a mysterious fire that tore through the store one evening. Rumours circulated that Horace Highton might have had something to do with it, but it was never proven. Of course, that just added fuel to the already bitter feud. The Hightons would always be the Finkelsteins’ enemies, no matter how many stunts Cecelia and her little daughter pulled.

Despite what his own daughter thought, Morrie hadn’t enjoyed pulling her out of school. But she had to understand what it meant to be a Finkelstein. He was protecting her. She’d only be hurt. Everyone knew that the Hightons hated the Finkelsteins. It was a fact of life, like breathing.