Chapter 4
"Answer me, Saskia," Bramwell said. The silence that followed his words felt like the seconds between the flash of lightning and the shockwave of thunder.
"She... she was sick, Bramwell," Saskia stammered, backing away until the hem of her gown dragged against the edge of the dessert table. Her voice had lost every trace of its aristocratic polish. "You remember. The private clinic in upstate New York. The fire in the east wing. They found her wedding ring in the debris. The coroner... the coroner signed the certificate!"
"The coroner whose wife’s mortgage was cleared by Osric’s shell company three days later?" Bramwell asked, his tone flat, clinical, and devastatingly informed.
Osric let out a whimper from the floor, his back pressed hard against the velvet bench. Blood was dripping steadily through his fingers, staining his silk tie into a dark, sodden mess.
Bramwell took one step forward. The crowd parted instantly, wealthy patrons tumbling over one another to clear a six-foot perimeter around him.
"Three years ago, you stood at Clara’s memorial service," Bramwell murmured, never breaking his gaze from Saskia’s hollow eyes. "You held my hand while I lowered an empty casket into the family plot. You told me the child was lost in the smoke. You told me there was nothing left of my blood."
"It was an accident!" Saskia cried, her hands flying to her throat as if she were already choking. "She was going to take everything, Bramwell! She didn't love the life! She hated what you were! I loved you! I stood by you while you built this city!"
"You didn't build anything," Bramwell said, his voice dropping into that chilling, subterranean octave that had preceded the fall of the Marcone family five winters ago. "You scavenged."
He turned his head slightly. "Kavanagh."
From the shadows near the grand entrance of the gallery, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal suit and an earpiece materialized. He didn't look like an invited guest; he looked like an ex-military operator who had been given a tailor's address and a six-figure retainer.
"Lock the doors," Bramwell commanded. "Nobody leaves this room. No phones. If a single photograph from this reception leaves this floor, strip the servers in the basement."
"Already done, Mr. Hollander," Kavanagh replied, his hand resting on the radio at his belt. "The private security guards at the perimeter have already been replaced by our men."
Saskia looked at the heavy glass double doors at the front of the gallery. Two men in tactical gear were sliding heavy iron deadbolts into place.
Panic, raw and unadulterated, turned her fair skin ashen.
"Bramwell, please," she begged, dropping to her knees on the scattered pastry crumbs, heedless of the emerald silk tearing against the broken plates. "You can't do this to my family! The mayor is here! Judge Vance is standing right there!"
"Judge Vance owes me three favors and his seat on the appellate court," Bramwell said, not sparing a glance for the gray-haired man sweating in the front row.
May you like
He looked down at the woman who had worn his ring for three weeks.
"Where is she, Saskia?"
