Chapter 8
Torsten looked at his daughter. For the first time in five years, he saw his late wife, Helena, staring back at him through Lavinia’s eyes—the same unyielding, ferocious bloodline that had built an empire out of back-alley survival.
"Dovie," Torsten said, his voice as soft as velvet.
The little girl looked up at him.
"Go with Bruno into the kitchen," Torsten said, gently prying the torn sketchbook from her fingers and tucking it under his own arm. "Tell the pastry chef to give you two of the strawberry tarts with the powdered sugar. The ones in the glass dome."
Dovie looked at her father groaning on the floor. She looked at Julian clutching his ruined knee. Then she looked at her mother.
"Okay, Grandpa," Dovie whispered.
She turned and took Bruno’s massive, calloused hand. The giant enforcer led her gently through the service doorway, pulling the heavy soundproofed oak door shut behind them with a muffled click.
The moment the latch engaged, the atmosphere in the conservatory hardened into something ancient and absolute.
Torsten walked over to the grand piano, picked up an unopened bottle of vintage champagne by the neck, and handed it to Lavinia.
Lavinia took the heavy green glass bottle in her left hand. Her fingers were steady.
"Merrick," Lavinia said, looking down at the man crawling at her feet.
"Lavinia... no... please, God, Lavinia—"
The heavy glass base of the champagne bottle crashed across the side of Merrick’s temple with a dull, concussive thud.
Merrick’s head struck the flagstones. He didn't scream. His limbs went completely limp, his eyes rolling back into his head, his breathing dropping into a shallow, ragged snore.
The bottle didn't break. Lavinia let it slip from her fingers; it rolled across the carpet, leaving a dark smudge of blood in its wake.
She turned to face Arthur.
"Uncle Arthur," Lavinia said, wiping a strand of dark hair from her forehead. "You told Merrick I was an emotional child."
Arthur was trembling against Cassian’s gun, the sweat soaking his collar, his arrogance completely evaporated. "Lavinia... we're family. We can fix this. The shares... you can keep the shares. We’ll transfer the entire investment trust into your name tomorrow morning—"
"The investment trust is already mine, Arthur," Torsten said, stepping up beside his daughter. "I signed the restructuring documents three weeks ago before the Grand Jury even convened. Every dollar, every terminal, every shell corporation was moved under Lavinia’s sole ownership. What you were trying to steal wasn't the family fortune."
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Arthur stared at him, his mouth agape. "What?"
"You were trying to steal the liability," Torsten murmured. "The maritime trust you wanted her to sign over was the shell company holding all the shipping manifests the federal prosecutors are investigating. If she had signed those papers, she wouldn't have lost her money, Arthur. She would have taken your prison sentence."
