Chapter 7
Leopold pocketed his gold pen. He did not look at Calloway, who remained curled on the marble floor like a broken dog, gasping for breath.
He turned back toward the upholstered bench.
Verity had pulled herself upright, leaning heavily against the wall. The swelling on the right side of her face had turned a deep, angry crimson, distorting her delicate features. Her emerald dress was wrinkled, her diamond earring gone, but the venom in her pale eyes had not diminished; it had crystallized into pure, unadulterated hatred.
“You think you’ve won, don't you?” Verity spat, wiping blood from her lip with the back of her trembling hand. “You think because you can bully a coward like Miller, you’ve stopped this? You're an outdated relic, Leo! You run this family with backroom threats and dockside muscle, while the rest of the world has moved on to private equity and federal lobbying!”
Leopold walked over to her slowly.
He did not raise a hand to strike her again. Violence was a tool, and the tool had already accomplished its physical purpose. Now, there was only the cold, methodical dismantling of her existence.
“You starved my child, Verity,” Leopold said.
“She’s not your child!” Verity screamed, her voice cracking in a hysterical crescendo that shattered the last remnants of her social poise. “She’s Margaret’s brat! You spent three years hiding behind that girl, pretending you were reformed, pretending you were a father! While the rest of us did the dirty work keeping the shipping lines open! She belongs in a sanitarium, just like her mother!”
The silence in the room became absolute, freezing into ice.
Leopold did not flinch. His expression did not change by a single millimeter.
He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out his own encrypted phone, and tapped the screen once. He held it to his ear for three seconds.
“Cassian,” Leopold spoke into the receiver.
A voice answered immediately on the other end: “Standing by, Boss.”
“Verity’s penthouse on Sutton Place,” Leopold said. “Empty it. Every piece of jewelry, every deed, every trust certificate bearing her name. Transfer her advisory shares in the maritime terminals to Cleo’s private custodial account under the 1994 charter. By midnight, I want the locks changed, the utilities terminated, and her passport flagged for federal audit.”
Verity’s eyes bulged with horror. “You can't do that! That trust was established by our father! It’s protected under irrevocable family law!”
“Our father died in my arms in an alley behind Pier 42,” Leopold said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal hum. “He gave the seal to me. Not to you. Not to Vance. To me. You have spent thirty-six years living off the blood I washed off my shirts, Verity. That privilege ended at four-eighteen on Tuesday afternoon when you took that video.”
He turned to Damon.
“Damon.”
“Sir.”
“Escort my sister to the service elevator. Put her in an unmarked town car. Have the driver drop her on the sidewalk outside Grand Central Terminal with fifty dollars in cash. Nothing else.”
“Leo! No! Leo, you can't do this to me!” Verity shrieked, scrambling off the bench, her silver heels skidding on the floor as Damon’s massive hands clamped down onto her upper arms with the unyielding strength of hydraulic machinery. “I am an Ashbury! I am your sister! Tell him to let go of me! Garrick! Help me!”
Garrick Vance did not move an inch. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, sweating through his tuxedo, praying that Leopold’s wrath would expend itself on Verity before it reached him.
May you like
Damon hauled Verity toward the side corridor with effortless momentum. Her screams of rage and terror echoed down the tiled service hall, growing fainter and fainter until the heavy, soundproofed steel door clicked shut behind them.
The conservatory fell into an eerie, church-like quiet.
