Chapter 6
"We have thirty armed men at the perimeter gates, Oswin," Julian hissed, leaning in, his American accent sharp as a switchblade. "You think your four bodyguards can escort us off this property if I give the word?"
"You had thirty men at the gates, Julian," a rough voice echoed from the wisteria arbor.
Marcus, Oswin’s secondary enforcer, stepped onto the terrace. He wore a dark wool suit, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, but his rosy jaw was bruised and a thin streak of motor oil stained his cuff.
"The gates are cleared, Boss," Marcus reported in a flat, clinical cadence. "The Croft drivers surrendered their keys ten minutes ago. We parked their sedans across the highway. The federal marshals Julian called? It turns out they were off-duty state troopers working private security. Once they saw the Wilmington deed, they took their cruisers and drove back to Trenton."
Julian’s mouth fell open. "You bought off the troopers?"
"I didn't buy anyone, Julian," Oswin replied, never raising his voice above a conversational murmur. "I reminded them who pays their pension funds. Your family provides promises. I provide payroll."
Oswin turned his back on the Crofts and faced the eighty gathered guests. The socialites, councilmen, and shipping tycoons shrank back into their cushioned chairs, terrified of meeting his slate-gray eyes.
"The engagement is concluded, ladies and gentlemen," Oswin announced, his baritone resonating across the manicured lawns. "The bar remains open. The catering staff has been instructed to serve the filet mignon. You may finish your wine, but I suggest you do so before my men begin locking the service roads at six o'clock."
No one moved. No one spoke.
"Leave," Oswin said softly.
The reaction was immediate. Women gathered their silk wraps in frantic, rustling motions; men scrambled to pull their wives by the elbows, leaving half-empty champagne flutes and unfinished hors d'oeuvres on the linen tablecloths. Within ninety seconds, the vast lawn was a blur of fleeing guests, their heels clattering toward the valet station in desperate, undignified haste.
Only Leopoldine, Julian, and the sobbing Clarissa remained on the stone terrace.
"You ruined us," Leopoldine whispered from the ground, staring at her bare ring finger. "My father took out seventy million in mezzanine loans against this wedding. If the Marlowe name isn't on the prospectus tomorrow morning, the banks will seize our townhouse in Manhattan."
"Then you should have left my daughter in her bed," Oswin said.
Celia looked down at Leopoldine, her small hands still clutching the embroidered pillow against her party dress. "Daddy, is the lady going to cry forever?"
"Not here, sweetheart," Oswin said, lifting Celia into his left arm. The little girl rested her chin on his satin lapel, wrapping her arms securely around his neck.
Julian took a menacing step toward Oswin. "This isn't over, Marlowe. You made a fool out of my family in front of every power broker on the eastern seaboard. You think the Commission in Chicago will let you sit on the waterfront alone?"
"The Commission knows where to find me," Oswin replied, his eyes cold as flint. "And unlike you, Julian, they know better than to touch my nursery."
Oswin signaled with two fingers.
May you like
Marcus and two armed guards stepped forward, flanking Julian and lifting Leopoldine roughly to her feet by her elbows.
"Get them off my property," Oswin commanded. "And if either of them steps within fifty yards of this estate again, bury them beneath the southern pier."
