Chapter 3
The gilded ceiling of the grand ballroom seemed to press downward like an iron slab. Above the silence, the faint hum of the estate’s air filtration system was the only sound, moving through the vast chamber like a held breath.
Percival did not shout. He did not draw the customized firearm resting beneath his tailored three-piece suit. He simply looked up at the high, arched shadows of the east gallery, where the portraits of long-dead Hawthorne patriarchs stared down from the mahogany walls.
"Garrick," Percival said.
The name was spoken at conversational volume, but from the western double doors, a six-foot-four enforcer in a dark wool suit stepped forward instantly. Garrick’s hands were folded neatly in front of his jacket, his scarred jaw set in stone.
"Boss," Garrick answered, stepping to Percival’s right shoulder.
"Lock the perimeter," Percival commanded, his voice measured and quiet. "Seal the iron gates. No guest departs. No engine turns over in the drive. If a single vehicle attempts to clear the lower checkpoint, shoot the tires and bring the driver to the cellar."
"Right away, Don Percival," Garrick replied, nodding once before pulling an encrypted radio from his breast pocket.
Within seconds, the distant, concussive clack of heavy brass deadbolts echoed through the lower foyers. The guests shifted in rising panic, elegant women clutching their pearl necklaces, powerful men exchanging alarmed, furtive glances.
Isabetta took a frantic step toward Percival, her knuckles white where she clutched her beaded evening bag.
"Percival, you’re losing your mind!" she whispered fiercely, trying to keep her American accent from cracking into a wail. "This girl is a peasant! She’s playing games to derail our wedding! Look at her! She probably put the lipstick on the fabric herself to create an excuse for stealing the family lace!"
Percival turned his head slowly. The slate-gray in his irises was as flat and lifeless as frozen lake water.
"Celandine has served my mother and my household since she was fourteen years old, Isabetta," Percival said, his controlled pauses stretching between the words like execution ropes. "She does not wear ruby velvet lipstick. You do."
Isabetta flinched, her hand flying instinctively to her lips. The shade she wore was an identical deep, shimmering crimson.
"I didn't touch that gown!" Isabetta hissed. "I haven't been upstairs since three this afternoon!"
"Then who gave Celandine the key?" Percival asked, stepping closer until his towering frame blotted out the chandelier light above her.
"I found it on the study floor!" Isabetta stammered, her eyes darting toward the gallery stairs. "I swear to God, Percival, it was lying beside the bookshelf! I thought you dropped it! I handed it to the girl so she could air out the linens!"
"You told me," Celandine spoke up from behind Percival, her voice gaining a clean, sharp strength, "that the new mistress needed the wardrobe cleared before the midnight toast. You told me if I didn't unlock the cedar chest within ten minutes, you would have my father dismissed from the harbor docks."
Percival’s eyes narrowed into twin points of black flint. He reached out with his left hand, his tattooed fingers taking hold of Isabetta’s wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the stillness of his grip was an immovable vise.
"My wife’s body was identified in the wreckage of a burned sedan in the Adirondacks three years ago," Percival murmured, his raspy baritone slicing cleanly through the tension. "Dental records confirmed it. Her brother signed the death certificate. And her wedding gown was locked in the safe beside her wedding band."
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He released Isabetta’s wrist and looked down at Celandine.
"Lead the way upstairs, Celandine," Percival commanded softly. "Let us see who is wearing my wife’s jewelry tonight."
