Elsbeth stood terrified as Garran dumped her basket over her head, scattering rose petals and a diamond bracelet across the carpet before loudly branding her a thief.

The grand mahogany clock in the foyer struck eight, its brass chimes reverberating through the ballroom like an executioner’s gong.

Truett did not wait for Isolde to answer. He reached down and scooped the fallen diamond bracelet off the Persian carpet using a clean linen handkerchief drawn from his breast pocket. He held the jewelry up to the chandelier light, turning it slowly.

"Remarkable craftsmanship," Truett observed, his thumb tracing the outer contour through the cloth. "Platinum-cut diamonds. But the hinge is too thick for a vanity piece. And the weight is off by at least two ounces."

He looked directly at Garran, who was struggling to stand while holding his bruised chest.

"A micro-machined cavity," Truett said, his tone devoid of surprise. "Designed to hold an encrypted flash drive or a cold-storage ledger. You didn't just plant a bracelet on my granddaughter to create a scene over maritime leases, did you, Garran? You were using her to walk this out of the building."

"You're delusional!" Garran snarled, though his pale skin had turned the color of curdled milk. He wiped a streak of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "It’s a family heirloom! It belonged to my mother!"

"Your mother died bankrupt in a private clinic in Palm Beach," Truett retorted coldly. "Her jewelry was liquidated at Sotheby's in 2018. My holding company bought the lot. Would you like me to pull up the bill of sale on my phone?"

A muffled gasp went through the crowd. Arthur Vance, the seventy-year-old patriarch of the family, pushed through the ring of guests, leaning heavily on a gold-headed cane. His face was as gray as river slate.

"Truett, please," the old man rasped, his voice trembling with age and terror. "Not in front of the associates. Let us go into the study. We can resolve this quietly. Julian is simply… he was overcome with exhaustion. He is resting in the library."

"Your son isn't resting, Arthur," Truett said, his voice cutting through the old man’s plea like a scythe through wheat. "A Vance hasn't rested on his wedding night in three generations unless he was drunk or bleeding."

Truett turned toward the private corridor leading to the estate's east wing.

"Isolde," Truett commanded. "Walk."

"I will not take orders from you in my own home!" Isolde hissed, her fists clenching around the tulle of her gown. "You have no legal right to enter the private quarters!"

Truett took two slow, predatory steps toward her. The space between them collapsed to less than an arm's length. Isolde instinctively leaned back, but Truett did not touch her. He merely looked down into her eyes with a terrifying, vacant calm that made her throat close up.

"Your father-in-law signed over the deed to this estate as secondary collateral against my shipping loans five months ago," Truett whispered. "You are standing on my floorboards, breathing my air, and wearing a dress paid for with my credit line. Now walk before I have my men carry you by your veil."

Isolde looked at Arthur. The old patriarch looked down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. She looked at Garran, who was leaning against a fluted pillar, gasping for breath and offering nothing.

With a sharp, shuddering breath, Isolde turned on her satin heels and marched toward the arched mahogany doorway of the east wing gallery, her heavy bridal train hissing across the hardwood like a venomous reptile.

Truett followed two paces behind, his overcoat unbuttoned, his hand resting within an inch of the tailored jacket where his custom Colt 1911 was holstered. Garran and old Arthur trailed behind them like condemned men walking toward a scaffold.

As they entered the long, portrait-lined hallway leading away from the music and laughter of the reception, Truett pulled a slim, encrypted satellite phone from his pocket and pressed a single speed-dial button.

"Marcus," Truett spoke into the receiver. "Seal the estate gates. No limousines leave the gravel drive. If the catering trucks try to roll, shoot the tires out."

"Copy that, Mr. Hawthorne," the voice replied instantly.

From behind them, Garran’s voice cracked in desperate fury. "You can't lock down this estate! We have foreign dignitaries here! We have city council members!"

Truett didn't look back. "Then they will have front-row seats to your funeral, Garran."

They reached the heavy, double-leaf oak doors of the security monitoring office, located just before the private library. The brass handle was locked, and a piece of black electrical tape had been freshly applied over the keyhole.