Bram stood rigid with cream sliding down his face as Oswald held a plate out of reach from three-year-old Edie and warned the boy that moving would cost his sister her dessert.

"Get on your feet, Oswald," Elspeth commanded.

Oswald scrambled up against the mahogany shelving, his legs shaking so badly he had to hook his fingers into the woodwork to keep from collapsing. His split lip had bled onto his collar, and his tailored trousers were covered in white hearth dust.

"You wanted to teach my son how to be a man," Elspeth said, walking over to the fireplace and picking up the heavy brass poker leaning against the grate. She balanced the iron weight in her hands, her gold signet ring clinking against the metal. "You thought because he didn't fight back, he was weak."

"I was joking, Elspeth! It was a party!" Oswald pleaded, his voice rising into a thin, breathless squeal. "Everyone was drinking! You know how the receptions get!"

"My son took that humiliation because he was protecting his sister," she said, her voice cutting like glass. "He stood there under the weight of your filth because he knew if he moved, you would take her plate. At four years old, he has more loyalty and courage in his fingernail than you have had in thirty-seven years of breathing."

She tossed the brass poker onto the hearth with a deafening metallic clang that made both men jump.

"Frank," she called out without looking back.

The second capo stepped forward from the service doorway, holding a thick manila envelope and a set of keys.

"The lease on the south salvage yard in Newark," Elspeth said, pointing at Oswald. "He’s the new nighttime yard manager. Twelve-hour shifts. Seven days a week. He doesn't touch a desk; he works the metal compactor with the crews."

Oswald’s eyes bulged in pure horror. "What?! The salvage yard? That’s where the dock rejects work! I have a degree in finance! I manage the shipping accounts!"

"You don't manage a single penny anymore, Oswald," Elspeth said. "You will live in the trailer behind the sorting crane. You will eat what the shift workers bring from the corner diner. And if you step outside the perimeter fence before your five-year term is finished, Frank will hunt you down and put a bullet through both of your kneecaps."

"Dad!" Oswald screamed, lunging toward the desk and grabbing Magnus’s shoulder. "Tell her! Tell her she can't do this! You're Arthur’s brother!"

Magnus looked at his son, his face completely hollowed out by despair. The old man reached up, his fingers weakly touching Oswald’s arm, but he couldn't find the strength to speak. He knew the arithmetic of the family better than Oswald did. In the old days, Arthur would have had Oswald strangled behind the stables for dealing with the Morettis.

Five years in a salvage yard was not a punishment; it was an act of godlike mercy.

"Take him out," Elspeth ordered.

Dominic and Frank stepped forward. Frank twisted Oswald’s arm behind his back with brutal efficiency, forcing him forward, while Dominic kicked the library doors wide open.

"Get your hands off me!" Oswald wailed, his heels dragging across the Persian rug as they hauled him down the corridor. "Elspeth! You can't do this! I’m a Wycliffe! I’m a Wycliffe!"

His screams echoed down the marble gallery, fading as the heavy service doors on the ground floor slammed shut.

The library was silent again, save for the ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner and the ragged, shallow breathing of Magnus Wycliffe.