Chapter 3
Victor Van Dorn did not argue. He was a veteran of the five families, a man who had survived three syndicate purges by knowing precisely when a king had decided to execute a courtier. He walked across the parquet floor, grabbed Sybil by her bare upper arm with bruising force, and hauled her toward the coat check without uttering a single syllable of protest.
"Father, wait!" Sybil shrieked, stumbling in her heels as she was dragged away. "Dacre, do something! Tell him he can't treat us like this!"
Dacre stood frozen in the center of the floor, his arms hanging limp at his sides, watching his multi-million-dollar alliance vanish through the revolving glass doors of the foyer.
Ronan turned his back on his son. He knelt down onto one knee on the polished marble floor, uncaring that the fabric of his bespoke trousers pressed into the dust beside the cleaning trolley. He reached out with both hands and gently took Della’s face between his scarred palms.
"Did anyone hurt you while I was in Europe, little bird?" Ronan asked, his voice low and infinitely tender.
Della sniffled, a tear spilling over her rosy cheek. "They moved my bed to the attic room, Grandpa. Aunt Sybil said my room was going to be for her wardrobe. And... and Daddy took Mommy’s gold locket. He said it was family gold and I wasn't old enough to have it."
Ronan closed his eyes for two seconds. When he opened them, the last shred of paternal warmth for his only son had burned away into cold, unyielding ash.
"Where is the locket, Dacre?" Ronan asked without turning around.
Dacre took a trembling breath, his hands shaking in his tuxedo pockets. "It’s... it’s in the master vault at the townhouse, Dad. I had it appraised—"
"You had your daughter's mother's dying keepsake appraised for scrap gold," Ronan stated, rising slowly to his full height. He looked at Dominic Vance. "Dominic."
"Yes, Boss."
"Take six men to Dacre’s townhouse on 72nd Street," Ronan ordered. "Drill the safe. Retrieve Elena’s jewelry, her personal journals, and every document carrying the Moretti seal. Then change the biometric locks on the front doors. Dacre is officially evicted."
Dacre lunged forward, his eyes wild with sudden, desperate panic. "Evicted?! That townhouse is mine! The deed is in my name!"
"The deed is held by Crestwell Maritime Holdings, Dacre," Ronan said, his cold grey eyes locking onto his son's frantic face. "A holding company in which you owned twenty percent of the non-voting shares. Shares that were revoked at midnight yesterday when your quarterly performance review revealed an eight-million-dollar deficit in the Atlantic transport accounts."
Dacre’s breath hitched. "You... you audited me?"
"I built an empire, Dacre," Ronan whispered, every word landing like an anvil. "You think I wouldn't audit a boy who borrows money to buy a watch? You stole eight million dollars from the syndicate’s pension reserve to pay off your gambling markers in Atlantic City. You thought you could cover the hole with Victor Van Dorn’s dowry."
The capos standing along the dance floor began to murmur, their faces hardening into masks of open hostility. Stealing from the syndicate pension was a treasonous offense that usually resulted in an unmarked grave behind the New Jersey docks.
"Dad, I made a bad investment!" Dacre pleaded, falling to his knees on the marble floor, reaching out with both hands to grab the hem of Ronan’s overcoat. "I was trying to double the returns! I swear on my life, I was going to put every dollar back once the market rebounded!"
Ronan looked down at the grown man groveling at his polished shoes. He didn't kick him away; he didn't raise his hand. He simply stepped back, letting Dacre’s fingers grasp empty air.
"You swear on your life," Ronan said, his voice flat and dead. "A life that has no value in this room."
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Ronan reached down, scooped six-year-old Della effortlessly into his left arm, and tucked her head against his shoulder. He turned to face the four hundred guests who stood watching in petrified silence.
"The engagement is canceled," Ronan announced, his baritone voice echoing through the grand arches of the ballroom. "The Crestwell family does not associate with thieves. Enjoy the champagne. It is the last feast my former son will ever attend."
