Chapter 3
Serena raised the crystal glass to her lips, her hands trembling only slightly. Beside the ruined gift table, Faye Mercer stood frozen in her satin gown, clutching her handbag against her small baby bump like a shield. She looked young, suddenly terrified, and completely out of her depth among killers dressed in bespoke tuxedos.
“Bastian…” Faye whimpered, her voice thin and breathy. “You said… you told me they already knew. You told me tonight was our formal announcement!”
“Shut up, Faye!” Bastian hissed, dabbing at his split lip with his sleeve.
“No, let the girl speak,” Serena commanded. She set her glass down with a sharp clink that silenced the whispered conversations down the length of the table. Serena looked directly at Faye, her green eyes piercing and unblinking. “How many months, Faye?”
Faye swallowed, glancing nervously at Alaric, whose towering frame still loomed like an executioner beside the table. “Sixteen weeks. It’s… it’s a boy. Bastian showed me the ultrasound. He said your father had agreed to step down once the boy was born.”
A dry chuckle escaped Alaric’s chest, dark and vibrating with lethal humor. “Did he now?”
“Bastian, tell them!” Faye pleaded, tears finally spilling over her mascara. “Tell them about the penthouse in Tribeca! You said the deed was transferred to our son’s name yesterday!”
“The deed to the Tribeca property,” Serena said softly, tilting her head, “is held under a holding company registered to my mother’s maiden name. I am the sole signatory. Bastian, did you forge my signature again?”
Bastian didn’t answer. His face had gone from flushed rage to a sickly, grayish pallor.
“You idiot,” Bianca spat at Faye, shoving the younger woman backward. “Keep your mouth shut! You know nothing about family business!”
“She knows enough to incriminate your son for grand larceny and fraud,” Alaric stated. He turned his gaze toward the far end of the banquet hall. “Marco.”
From the shadows near the grand archway, a broad-shouldered man in a dark charcoal suit stepped forward. Marco had been Alaric’s chief of security for twenty-two years; when Marco moved, bodies usually followed.
“Boss?” Marco asked quietly.
“Lock the exterior gates,” Alaric said without turning around. “No cars leave the estate grounds. Confiscate the phones from everyone at the Coletti table. If anyone resists, break their fingers.”
Several Coletti cousins seated at the lower half of the banquet table jumped to their feet in protest.
“You can’t hold us hostage, Montesi!” shouted one of the younger Colettis, reaching inside his tuxedo jacket.
May you like
Before his hand could clear his lapel, two Montesi enforcers were behind him. A suppressed pistol was pressed against the back of his neck, forcing him roughly down onto the tabletop, scattering plates and shattering wine glasses.
“Sit down, boys,” Alaric warned, his voice smooth as silk and cold as ice. “You came here to celebrate my grandchild. Be polite guests. We haven’t even served the roast yet.”
