Chapter 10
The iron gates of the estate conservatory clicked open.
Arthur scrambled across the broken glass, dragging himself through the terrace doors into the afternoon sun without looking back at his son. Julian was hauled to his feet by two of Cassian’s men, his groans muffled as a heavy coat was thrown over his shoulders and he was dragged toward the private basement clinic.
The sixty guests were ushered out through the service corridors in absolute, terrified silence, their phones returned to them, their instructions clear: speak to the press, speak to the police, and their names would be added to the federal manifest before morning.
The vast glass dome was finally empty.
Only the quiet, steady murmur of the decorative fountain remained, its water now stained with faint pink ribbons of blood and grey swirls of dissolved wax.
Lavinia sat back down on the velvet bench.
The adrenaline that had held her upright had begun to fade, leaving her trembling with exhaustion and the throbbing agony of her fractured shoulder. But her head was held high. Her eyes were clear, steady, watching the white daylight shift toward the cool, clean blue of dusk.
The service door opened softly.
Dovie walked out, holding a small porcelain plate with a half-eaten strawberry tart. Her face was smeared with powdered sugar, but her eyes were calm. She walked over to the bench, set the plate down on the stone coping of the fountain, and climbed up beside her mother, tucking her small body gently against Lavinia’s uninjured side.
Torsten walked over to them.
He had removed his suit jacket, folding it neatly across the back of the bench. His white dress shirt was clean, untouched by blood or water. He crouched down in front of his daughter and granddaughter, resting his large, scarred hands on his knees.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out Dovie’s sketchbook.
The spiral binding was bent, and several pages were torn, but the clean, heavy paper inside remained intact. He set it on Lavinia’s lap, then reached into his vest and pulled out a fresh tin of twelve colored wax crayons he had taken from his desk in the library.
"Draw something new, little bird," Torsten murmured, brushing a lock of hair from Dovie’s forehead.
Dovie looked at the tin. Her small hand reached out and picked up a bright, vivid blue crayon.
She opened the sketchbook to a fresh white page.
"Grandpa?" she whispered.
"Yes, baby?"
"What happens when the man at the airfield gets angry?"
Torsten went still.
He looked at the little girl, whose blue crayon was already hovering over the clean paper.
"Did you hear something else at the lake house, Dovie?" he asked softly.
Dovie nodded, her eyes wide and solemn in the clean twilight.
"Before Daddy yelled at Mommy," she said, her voice dropping into a hush, "a car drove up to the gate. A black car with silver windows. A man got out and gave Uncle Julian a silver phone. He said when the old man dies, the city isn't going to New York or Chicago."
Torsten’s jaw tightened. "Who did he say it belonged to, Dovie?"
Dovie looked down at the page. With two swift, deliberate strokes of her blue crayon, she drew a single, distinct shape in the center of the paper—a three-pointed crown inside a broken circle, the ancient mark of the European syndicate that had supposedly vanished from the docks twenty years ago.
"He said it belongs to the people who built the house before you were born," Dovie whispered.
Across the quiet conservatory, Torsten’s personal encrypted phone buzzed once on the marble pedestal.
Torsten did not move to answer it immediately. He looked at the drawing on his granddaughter's lap, then glanced up at the high glass dome, where the first stars of the evening were beginning to pierce the gathering cold.
May you like
The war inside his house was over.
The war for the city had only just begun.
