Chapter 6
The library fell into a terrifying, suffocating silence.
Carmine’s carefully practiced composure evaporated completely. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving his skin the color of dirty snow. "You're lying. That deal was handled through private brokers in Lisbon."
"Private brokers who answer to Julian Vance," Elspeth replied, not even turning her head. "And Julian has been my chief accountant since my father drew his last breath. Your uncle doesn't have three crews ready to cross the river, Carmine. He has three crews currently trying to figure out how to explain to their loan sharks why twelve million dollars just vanished into thin air."
She gestured slightly with two fingers.
Dominic stepped forward, stripped the leather holster from Carmine’s jacket, and threw the young man’s gun onto the sofa with a clatter.
"Get out," Elspeth said to the Moretti heir. "Walk out the front gate. Call your uncle on your way to the bridge. Tell him if I see another Moretti vehicle within five miles of my county line, I won't just keep his cargo. I’ll send his private accounts to the federal prosecutor in Brooklyn."
Carmine didn't hesitate. He backed toward the main library doors, his eyes darting frantically between Dominic’s pistol and Elspeth’s impassive face. "This isn't over, Elspeth."
"It was over three hours ago, Carmine," she said softly. "You just didn't read the receipts."
The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him, followed by the rapid thud of his shoes sprinting down the gallery corridor.
That left only the three Wycliffes.
Oswald remained on the carpet, his fingers slipping off the steel handle of the strongbox. He looked up at his father, his eyes wild with betrayal. "You told me the Morettis were holding the cards! You told me they had the leverage to break her!"
Magnus didn't answer. He slumped back into the leather desk chair, his eyes glazed, his jaw working silently as though he were chewing on gravel. The realization of what he had done—committing treason against the family only to discover his co-conspirators were already financially castrated—crushed whatever arrogance remained in his old bones.
Elspeth walked over to the hearth. She reached down with one hand, lifted the heavy green strongbox effortlessly by its brass handle, and set it atop the desk in front of Magnus.
"Open it," she commanded.
Magnus blinked, looking up at her through rheumy, defeated eyes. "Elspeth... please. It’s just old accounts. Nostalgia."
"Open the box, Magnus. Or I will have Frank break your fingers one by one until you remember the numbers."
Trembling violently, Magnus reached forward. His age-spotted hands hovered over the brass dial. Three turns to the left, two to the right, a sharp click to the center. The heavy lid popped open with a dry clack.
Inside lay three yellowed leather-bound ledgers, a bundle of vintage bonds, and a tarnished silver revolver wrapped in an oiled silk cloth.
Elspeth did not look at the books. She reached in, picked up the silver revolver, and checked the cylinder. Five rounds were seated inside the brass chambers.
She set the gun down on the desk, pointing the barrel directly toward Oswald’s knees.
"You touched my son today," Elspeth said, her voice dropping into that terrifying, dead register. "You put garbage on his head to make your miserable friends laugh. You threatened my daughter's food."
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Oswald scrambled backward across the carpet until his spine hit the lower shelf of the bookcase, sending several leather volumes tumbling around his shoulders. "Elspeth! We’re cousins! We grew up in this house together!"
"And that," Elspeth murmured, "is the only reason your body isn't currently floating toward the bay."
