Chapter 8
Kenneth’s scream was an animal wail that tore through the chaos of the ballroom.
He collapsed onto the floorboards, clutching his shattered joint, thrashing in agony as blood pooled beneath his trousers.
"Roderic! You crazy bastard!" Kenneth shrieked, tears and sweat pouring down his face. "My knee! You broke my knee!"
Roderic stepped over the writhing underboss, his polished leather shoes making no sound against the spilled wine and shattered glass. He walked straight to the service door leading to the private kitchen suite.
He pushed the door open.
Inside the warm, gleaming stainless-steel kitchen, Silas was sitting on a metal prep stool beside a prep island. On the table sat a clean porcelain bowl of steaming chicken broth and a plate of roasted potatoes.
Annelie was sitting on the counter, her small legs swinging rhythmically. Her cheeks were already regaining their rosy color, a faint smear of golden broth at the corner of her lips. She held a small piece of bread in both hands, chewing with deliberate, ravenous focus.
When the door opened, Annelie looked up, her wide hazel eyes brightening instantly.
"Daddy!" she called out, holding up her half-eaten bread. "The soup is warm. Silas gave me the big spoon."
Roderic stopped.
The lethal frost that had coated his features melted away, replaced by a quiet, protective tenderness that no one outside this room would ever believe existed. He walked over, rested his large hand on the crown of her head, and smoothed down her golden-brown curls.
"Is it good, baby?" Roderic asked softly.
"It’s the best soup in the whole world," Annelie said, nodding vigorously. She looked past his shoulder toward the distant shouting in the ballroom. "Daddy? Is the party over?"
"The party is over, sweetheart," Roderic murmured.
Silas stood up, wiping his hands on a clean kitchen towel, his face grim. "Boss. I heard the broadcast through the comms. Miller’s federal team is staging in the lower lobby. They’ve blocked the underground parking garage."
Roderic looked down at his daughter. "Finish your bread, Annelie. We’re leaving."
"Are we going home, Daddy?" she asked, clutching his sleeve.
"We’re going to the safehouse in the Catskills," Roderic said. "Put your cardigan on."
Annelie obediently slipped her arms into the knit cardigan, letting Roderic scoop her up into his left arm. She nestled her head against his neck, her small fingers wrapping around his lapel, completely unfazed by the faint smell of gunpowder lingering on his wool coat.
Roderic turned to Silas. "Did you contact the harbor master?"
"Ten minutes ago," Silas replied, checking the magazine of his sidearm with a sharp click. "Captain Vane has the deep-water tugboat idling at Slip Nine. If the marshals try to board the terminal, Vane has orders to scuttle the two fuel barges across the main navigation channel. Nobody enters the port, and nobody leaves."
"Good," Roderic said. "Let Miller explain forty million gallons of burning diesel to the Governor."
Roderic pushed the kitchen door open, stepping back into the ruined ballroom with his daughter in his arms.
Delphine was still sitting on the floor beside her chair, weeping hysterically, her emerald gown ruined, staring at Kenneth who was groaning in a pool of his own blood.
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As Roderic walked past, Delphine reached out a trembling, manicured hand, clutching at the hem of his dark overcoat.
"Roderic... please," she whispered, her voice cracking in pure, pathetic terror. "Don't leave me here. The feds will arrest me for the stream. I’ll spend twenty years in a federal penitentiary! Take me with you!"
