Chapter 3
The wind caught the edge of the marquee, fluttering the silk borders like funeral bunting. Not a fork moved; not a glass touched a saucer.
"Tell him, Magnus," Elspeth repeated, taking half a step closer. The heels of her shoes struck the stone with the hollow finality of gavel strikes. "Tell him about the night your brother died in the hospital on Atlantic Avenue. Tell him why the nurse brought that ring to my suite at three in the morning instead of your house."
Oswald’s gaze whipped between them, the swelling on his jaw darkening into an ugly violet knot. "Dad... what is she talking about? Uncle Arthur left the organization to the senior line. He left the charter to you!"
"Be quiet, Oswald," Magnus rasped, his knuckles whitening as he kept his signet covered.
"No, let him hear it," Elspeth said smoothly. She reached into the pocket of her tailored trousers, pulled out a gold cigarette case, and tapped an unlit cigarette against the casing. Dominic stepped forward immediately, flicking open an antique lighter with a practiced thumb, offering the flame without being asked. Elspeth drew the smoke in, exhaling a thin, straight needle of grey through her teeth.
"Your father spent twenty-five years as a courier with a silver tongue," she said, looking Oswald dead in the eye. "When my father’s heart stopped, Magnus thought he could forge the registry and take the northern warehouses. He thought a thirty-two-year-old girl who had just given birth wouldn't notice five million dollars bleeding out of the pension trust."
"That's an internal dispute," Magnus muttered, his eyes darting toward the lawn where thirty family capos and their wives were listening to every syllable. "It was resolved within the council."
"It was resolved because I walked into your master bedroom with two shotguns and your ledger books," Elspeth corrected him, her voice entirely devoid of anger, which made it ten times more horrifying. "I gave you that ring, Magnus. I put it on your finger and let you sit at the head table because you were my father's brother, and I thought letting you pretend to be an elder statesman would keep your mouth shut. I gave you three percent of the freight imports so you could afford this country house and pay your son’s gambling debts."
She paused, allowing the smoke to drift between them.
"I bought you that suit. I paid for that scotch. And I allowed your idiot son to wear a dinner jacket instead of digging ditches on the riverbank."
Oswald stepped back, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. He looked at the family members who had backed him an hour ago—the cousins who had laughed when he dumped the cream on Bram. Every single one of them had turned their bodies away, staring intensely at their shoes or the distant tree line.
"You're a parasite, Oswald," Elspeth said softly. "You feed on scraps, and then you mistake the grease on your chin for royalty."
"You think you can humiliate us like this?" Oswald hissed, his pride breaking through his caution. "In front of everyone? The board has to approve any reallocation of the freight routes! You can't cut us out!"
"The board approved the reallocation forty minutes ago," Dominic stated from behind Elspeth’s shoulder. His flat Brooklyn accent was devoid of emotion. "We froze your line of credit at twelve-fifteen, Mr. Wycliffe. The marina slip in Montauk is locked. The three sedans leased under the family trust are currently being loaded onto flatbeds in your driveway."
May you like
Oswald’s breath hitched. He spun toward the house, as if expecting to see the trucks through the hedge wall.
"Take your boy, Magnus," Elspeth said, turning her back on them both as she knelt down on the flagstones. "Take him out through the service gate. If I see either of your faces on this estate after sunset, Dominic won't use a flatbed. He’ll use a backhoe."
