Chapter 10
Midnight settled over Blackwood Manor, wrapping the ancient estate in absolute silence.
The banquet hall had been entirely cleared. The broken porcelain from Marguerite’s shattered face had been swept away; the stained damask linens had been burned; and the mahogany table now gleamed under the soft glow of candlelight, set with five simple, elegant place settings.
In the center of the table sat a basket of warm bread, fresh fruit, and roasted chicken.
Linnea sat at the head of the table, watching her three children eat in quiet peace. Faye was humming a gentle nursery melody while spreading butter on her toast; Della was happily dipping roasted potatoes into gravy; and Beckett was chewing contentedly, his little cheeks full and rosy under the warm chandeliers.
"Mommy?" Beckett asked, looking up with big, bright eyes. "Are we allowed to eat all of this?"
Linnea reached out, tenderly wiping a drop of gravy from his chin with a linen napkin. "Every single bite, Beckett. Everything in this house is yours. Forever."
"No more scraps?" Della asked softly.
"Never again," Linnea promised, her heart swelling with an unbreakable, maternal ferocity. "This is your home. No one will ever make you feel small again."
A soft knock sounded at the grand archway. Julian Vance stepped into the hall, his face pale and serious. He held a black leather folio tied with a crimson wax seal—a seal stamped with the crest of a coiled viper.
Linnea’s eyes narrowed. She stood up smoothly, kissing the tops of her children’s heads.
"Keep eating, my loves," Linnea whispered. "Mommy has to speak with Mr. Vance for a moment."
She walked with Julian out onto the grand stone terrace overlooking the dark, frozen grounds. The winter wind swept through the pines, carrying the faint, distant hum of a helicopter turbine vibrating across the low hills.
"It arrived five minutes ago by private courier," Julian said, his voice tense as he handed her the black folio. "Marcus didn't wait for his jet. He was already in international waters off the coast of Montauk."
Linnea broke the crimson wax seal with her thumb, pulling out the single sheet of heavy parchment inside.
The handwriting was bold, sharp, and penned in dark black ink:
Linnea,
You took my heirs. You took my fleet. And now you have stolen your father’s house.
Your sister gave me the coordinates, but I did not need them. I have been watching you since the moment you stepped off the train.
Look toward the iron gates.
I am coming to collect what belongs to me.
M.V.
Linnea looked up from the parchment, stepping slowly to the stone balustrade of the high terrace.
Two miles down the long, winding drive, beyond the closed iron gates of Blackwood Manor, the headlights of three black armored trucks cut through the freezing fog, idling silently in the dark. A tall silhouette stepped out from the lead vehicle, standing under the glow of the gate lamps, looking directly up toward the manor house.
Behind her, Beckett’s small footsteps padded onto the cold stone of the terrace. He reached up, his tiny hand slipping into Linnea's fingers.
"Mom..." Beckett whispered, staring down the dark driveway. "Who is waiting at the gate?"
May you like
Linnea squeezed her son's hand, her eyes blazing with an icy, unshakeable defiance as the wind whipped her dark coat around her.
"Someone who is about to learn what happens to thieves," Linnea said softly.
