Chapter 4
The grand banquet resumed under an atmosphere of suffocating tension. While the waiters nervously served roasted duck and chilled wines to the whispering capos, Vincent guided Laura, David, and little Emma into his private mezzanine office overlooking the ballroom.
The room was paneled in dark English walnut, lined with leather-bound ledgers and heavy velvet drapery. A fire crackled softly in the limestone fireplace.
Vincent sat in a massive leather armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His white shirt was still open at the collar, revealing the sharp, artistic ink climbing his throat. Emma was perched safely on his lap, clutching a fresh porcelain plate piled high with strawberries and chocolate cake that David had hand-carried up the stairs.
"Eat up, Em," David said, leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk, watching his sister with protective warmth. "No one's taking that away."
Laura paced the length of the Persian rug, her heels clicking sharp and erratic. She stopped before Vincent, crossing her arms over her emerald gown.
"She didn't do this just because of cruelty, Vincent," Laura said, her voice dropping to a fierce, hushed whisper so Emma wouldn't understand. "Margaret has been meeting with people. Outsiders."
Vincent fed Emma a piece of strawberry, his expression impassive. "I know."
"You know?" Laura’s eyes widened. "Then why did you let her attend tonight?"
"Because a rat only shows its hole when it thinks the cheese is guaranteed," Vincent said slowly, pausing between phrases in that signature, hypnotic cadence. "Margaret spent forty minutes in the coat check speaking to someone on an encrypted burner phone. David, tell your mother what you heard near the terrace."
David straightened up, his youthful jaw clenching. "I was getting Emma’s coat from the annex before dinner. Aunt Margaret was in the shadows by the fountain. She was telling someone that 'the timing was tonight' and that once she humiliated Laura’s family at the main table, the northern elders would have an excuse to demand a leadership audit."
Laura inhaled sharply, stepping closer to Vincent’s chair. "An audit? On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that I allowed an outsider's bloodline to sit at the high table," Vincent murmured, smoothing Emma’s hair as the toddler contentedly chewed her cake. "Margaret thinks Emma is a liability. She believes if she can prove I am 'emotionally compromised' by an adopted orphan, she can rally the old guard to strip my voting shares in the shipping consortium."
"That's insane," Laura whispered. "Emma was an infant when we brought her in! Her parents died in that warehouse fire—"
"Her parents didn't die in an accident, Laura," Vincent interrupted quietly, his cold grey eyes locking onto his daughter with terrifying intensity.
The room went deathly still. Even the crackling fire seemed to quiet down.
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Laura froze, her hands falling to her sides. "What are you talking about?"
"Emma’s biological father wasn't an ordinary dockworker," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on David's neck stand up. "He was Marcus Valenti’s secret brother. And the fire that killed him was set by our own elders twelve years ago."
