Chapter 4
The private penthouse suite on the top floor of the Crestwell Tower was an oasis of dark mahogany, soft leather, and warm amber lamplight, high above the frantic pulse of Manhattan.
Della sat curled up on a wide velvet sofa, wrapped in an oversized cashmere blanket, her small feet tucked beneath her. In her hands, she held a warm mug of hot chocolate that Ronan’s personal housekeeper had prepared, her big hazel eyes watching the glowing embers of the stone fireplace.
Ronan stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a crystal tumbler of Scotch, looking out over the glittering grid of the city. He had removed his overcoat, but his three-piece charcoal suit remained immaculate, the gold signet ring catching the firelight.
Dominic Vance entered the suite, holding a heavy velvet-lined jewelry box and a manila file folder.
"We breached the townhouse safe, Boss," Dominic reported quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the child. "We recovered Elena’s locket. It was sitting in an envelope addressed to an auction house in Geneva."
Ronan set his glass down on the side table with a faint clink. He walked over, took the velvet box, and opened the brass clasp.
Inside lay a delicate, antique locket fashioned from rose gold, engraved with a blooming lily and set with a single teardrop sapphire.
Ronan walked to the sofa and knelt beside his granddaughter.
"Look what Dominic found, Della," Ronan murmured softly.
Della’s eyes widened, a brilliant, breathtaking smile illuminating her fair face as she set her mug down and reached out with both hands. "Mommy’s necklace!"
Ronan gently fastened the gold chain around her small neck, tucking the cool sapphire beneath her blush cardigan. "It belongs to you, little bird. It will never leave your side again."
Della wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face into his shoulder. "Grandpa... is Daddy going to jail?"
Ronan patted her back with his large, calloused hand, his eyes hardening into flint as he looked over her shoulder at Dominic.
"Your father is going somewhere far away, Della," Ronan said gently. "Somewhere he cannot hurt you ever again."
He motioned for the housekeeper to take Della into the adjoining bedroom. Once the heavy oak door clicked shut, Ronan stood up, his posture shifting back into the ruthless sovereign of the underworld.
"What else was in the safe, Dominic?" Ronan asked, walking back to the desk.
Dominic laid the manila folder on the polished wood. "Flight manifests, Don Ronan. Dacre didn't just plan to marry Sybil Van Dorn. He booked three one-way tickets to Zurich for tomorrow evening on a private charter out of Teterboro."
Ronan’s brow furrowed. "Three tickets?"
"One for Dacre. One for Sybil," Dominic paused, his jaw clenching with disgust. "And one for an operative named Marcus Kane. A private asset handler who specializes in underground conservatorships."
Ronan’s hand froze over the desk. "He was going to take Della out of the country."
"Not to raise her, Boss," Dominic whispered, his voice dark with fury. "Under the terms of Mateo Moretti’s original trust, if Elena died without a recognized adult heir, the forty-percent voting block in the northern freight lines would pass to Elena’s child upon her seventh birthday—provided the child was residing under legal guardianship in Switzerland. Dacre wasn't trying to hide her. He was trying to lock her in an Alpine sanitarium so he could sign away her voting rights as her legal guardian."
The heavy crystal tumbler on the side table shattered in Ronan’s fist.
Scotch and shards of glass splattered across the mahogany desk, but Ronan didn't flinch. A thin line of crimson welled across his palm, dripping steadily onto the white linen blotter, but his slate-grey eyes remained as cold and still as an arctic ocean.
"He tried to sell Mateo’s grandchild to the Swiss vaults," Ronan whispered, every word carved from volcanic stone.
"What are your orders, Don Ronan?" Dominic asked, his hand drifting instinctively toward his sidearm.
May you like
Ronan reached into his pocket, drew a clean linen handkerchief, and slowly wiped the blood and liquor from his hand.
"Bring Dacre to the lower wine vaults beneath the docks," Ronan commanded. "Tell the council that the succession has been rewritten. And call Dr. Mercer. It’s time my former son learned what an extraction feels like."
