Chapter 6
Ronan’s eyes narrowed to slivers of gunmetal.
"Sybil," Ronan said.
The woman froze, her hand flying instinctively to cover the gold oval at the base of her throat. "This is mine! Dacre gave it to me as an antique heirloom from the Crestwell estate!"
"The Higgins family wore that medal when they unloaded coal from the steamships forty years before you were born," Ronan said. "Take it off."
"No!" Sybil screamed, scrambling backward against the floorboards. "This is assault! Somebody call the commissioner! Somebody call the federal marshals!"
The three hundred guests stood like stone statues. Not a single man moved to her aid; not a single hand reached into a pocket. The judges looked at the ceiling; the bankers looked at their shoes. They knew the hierarchy of the city, and they knew that when Ronan Crestwell drew blood, the law did not intervene.
Ronan nodded once to Silas.
The enforcer stepped forward, bent down with mechanical precision, and seized the gold chain. With one sharp, deliberate yank, he snapped the link from Sybil's neck.
Sybil cried out in pain as the thin metal scored a red line across her pale throat. Silas did not acknowledge her whimpers. He wiped the locket clean against his handkerchief and placed it into Ronan’s waiting palm.
Ronan clicked the tiny brass clasp open with his thumbnail.
Inside, beneath a scratched oval of watch-crystal, was a miniature photograph: Clara Higgins, twenty-four years old, laughing in the summer sun on the South Side pier, holding an infant Della wrapped in an ivory blanket. Opposite the portrait was a folded scrap of paper inscribed in delicate cursive: To my husband, who promised we would build a kingdom.
Ronan snapped the locket shut with a heavy, metallic click.
He bent down and placed the gold chain over Della’s head, letting the heavy pendant rest against the damp, stained tulle of her cardigan.
"Keep it close, sweetheart," Ronan said. "It belongs to the mistress of this house."
Della clutched the warm gold in both hands, pressing it against her heart, her tears finally slowing. "Thank you, Grandpa."
Ronan turned back to Dacre. His son was still on his knees, shivering violently, his hands clawing at the carpet as if trying to find purchase in an unraveling universe.
"Get up, Dacre," Ronan commanded.
"Dad... please..." Dacre sobbed. "I'm your only son. Michael died in the accident ten years ago. I'm all you have left! If you destroy me, the Crestwell name dies with you!"
May you like
Ronan looked down at him with an expression of profound, devastating pity.
"The Crestwell name is not carried by cowards who murder their wives and hide behind the skirts of politicians," Ronan said. "The Crestwell name is carried by blood that does not bend."
