Chapter 3
The ambient clatter of the estate grounds seemed to vanish entirely, swallowed by the suffocating gravity of the dining hall. The sunbeams filtering through the conservatory glass illuminated every microscopic detail: the fine bead of sweat forming at Davina’s hairline, the trembling hem of Nella’s apron, and the motionless, predatory posture of Torin Ashenford.
Julian Ashenford, Torin’s father and the founder of the syndicate, had died six months ago in his sleep. The official report had cited congestive heart failure. An entire city had worn black to his cathedral funeral.
Torin stood unmoving, his hands resting easily at his sides. The heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger gleamed with cold brilliance under the daylight.
“Say that again, Mother,” Torin commanded softly. His voice remained at a low, measured volume, but every syllable carried the weight of an iron anchor.
Elspeth did not look away from Davina. Her weathered hands rested flat on the bleached oak table. “The night Julian died, he was having chest pains. Davina came into the library with a blue water glass. She had a bottle from her purse—not the amber prescription bottle from Dr. Mercer. She told him it was an experimental compound from Zurich. She told him it would make the pressure stop.”
“Elspeth, stop this madness!” Davina shouted, her voice shrill and unhinged as she backed away from Torin’s imposing frame. She turned toward the seated guests, her hands clawing the air in desperate appeal. “Look at her! She can’t remember what day of the week it is! She forgets where her bedroom is! Torin, you cannot honestly stand there and listen to the ramblings of a senile old woman!”
“My mother,” Torin murmured, the pause between his words stretching like execution wire, “remembered... the color of the glass.”
He stepped forward. Davina took a panicked step back, her four-inch heels clicking erratically on the marble.
“Torin, please,” Davina pleaded, clutching her diamond necklace with slick fingers. “I loved your father! I brought that family together! I spent hours nursing him while you were running operations in Chicago!”
Torin stopped two feet from her. His cold eyes tracked down to her trembling hands.
“Nella,” Torin said without looking back.
“Yes, Don Torin?” the maid answered, her voice regaining its steady resolve.
“Tell me about the visitor,” Torin said.
Nella took a deep breath, stepping around the chair. “Three days before Mr. Ashenford passed away, a courier arrived through the service gate at midnight. Miss Davina met him in the herb garden. I was washing the evening linens in the pantry window. She handed him a brown leather folio, and he gave her a small silver refrigerated canister. She told him the transfer would be complete before the month ended.”
“You lying little gutter rat!” Davina shrieked, lunging toward Nella with her crimson nails bared like claws. “I’ll tear your throat out!”
She never crossed the threshold.
May you like
Torin’s tattooed left hand shot forward like a steel trap, locking around Davina’s wrist mid-air. The kinetic force stopped her dead in her tracks, forcing a choked cry of agony from her lungs as his fingers ground into her tendons.
“You do not raise your hand in this house,” Torin whispered into her ear. “Not to my mother. And not to the girl who protected her.”
