Chapter 10
The Grand Crestwell Pavilion fell into an immense, cavernous quiet.
The bright daylight illumination from the chandeliers remained steady and clean, shining down upon the vast, empty expanse of parquet wood and the lone cleaning trolley standing beside the service door.
Ronan walked to the padded bench and sat down. For the first time all evening, the weight of his sixty-one years settled into his broad shoulders. He unbuttoned his wool overcoat, resting his elbows on his knees, staring down at the polished leather of his shoes.
A soft rustle of tulle broke the silence.
Della walked across the empty floor, her patent-leather flats tapping rhythmically against the mahogany. She stopped between Ronan’s knees, reached out with her small hands, and smoothed the lapels of his charcoal suit.
Hanging against her small chest was Clara’s gold locket, catching the brilliant white light of the chandeliers.
"Grandpa?" Della asked softly. Her voice was small, but the trembling had stopped.
Ronan looked down into her wide hazel eyes—the same eyes that had looked up at him from a crib six years ago on the South Side.
"Yes, little bird?"
"Is Daddy ever coming back?"
Ronan was quiet for a long moment. He did not lie to his blood; he had never lied to the people he protected.
"No, Della," Ronan said gently. "Your father is not coming back."
Della looked down at the locket in her hands. She opened the tiny clasp, looked at the miniature photograph of her mother laughing on the pier, and then looked back up at the patriarch.
"That's okay," Della whispered, leaning her forehead against his chest, right over the heavy rhythm of his heart. "Mommy is here now."
Ronan closed his broad arms around her, holding the child against the fine wool of his jacket, shielding her from the cold vastness of the empty palace.
The service door clicked open.
Silas stepped out from the shadows, his expression dark and tense. He held an encrypted satellite phone in his right hand, the screen glowing with an unread communication from an overseas frequency.
"Mr. Crestwell," Silas murmured, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the girl.
Ronan lifted his chin, his slate-gray eyes sharpening instantly. "What is it?"
"The forensic team in Blackwood Basin just finished opening the trunk," Silas said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into a tense, urgent whisper. "The remains inside were not Clara Higgins."
Ronan went rigid. Every muscle in his massive frame locked into stone.
"What did you say?"
"The body in the concrete belonged to an unidentified female from the Chicago syndicate," Silas said, holding out the satellite phone. "And three minutes ago, a secure transmission was bounced through a relay tower in the Bahamas. A message was routed directly to your personal terminal."
Ronan took the phone with his right hand, his thumb sliding across the encrypted display.
A short text message burned into the glass:
She was never in the box, Ronan. But if you want to see her alive, the ports belong to Chicago by dawn.
Ronan stared at the glowing letters on the screen.
Beneath his arm, Della breathed softly, her fingers still clasped tight around her mother’s gold locket.
Ronan did not speak. Slowly, his fingers closed around the frame of the satellite phone until the tempered glass cracked beneath his grip. He looked up at the high, vaulted glass ceiling where the dark night was beginning to press against the perimeter panes.
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The civil war inside his household was finished.
The real war for his family had just begun.
