Chapter 6
Isabetta’s breath hitched in her throat. She looked at Garrick, then at the two armed sentries flanking the hallway, but every man stood rigid, their eyes locked on the floor, waiting for the executioner's word.
"She was my cousin, Percival!" Isabetta blurted out, her voice cracking into shrill, desperate panic. "Genevieve was my cousin from the Philadelphia branch! Our families share a bloodline! Marcus knew that when he brought me to New York!"
"Your cousin?" Percival asked, tilting his head slightly. A faint, terrible smile touched the corners of his lips beneath his trimmed stubble. "Then why did you press your wine-stained heel into her wedding dress in front of forty guests downstairs?"
"Because I hated her!" Isabetta screamed, tears finally cutting dark tracks through her foundation. "She had everything! She had the family trust, she had the northern logistics routes, and she had you! For ten years, I was the daughter of an exiled capo in Baltimore, scraping for scraps while Genevieve lived in this palace! When she died, Marcus told me it was my turn! He said if I took her seat, our families would merge the eastern terminals!"
"And what did Marcus promise Genevieve," Percival asked, his voice dropping an octave into an arctic void, "before he put her in that burning car?"
"She wasn't in the car!" Isabetta wept, falling to her knees on the Persian rug, clutching her diamond necklace with trembling hands. "She wasn't in the car, Percival! Marcus traded her! To the Valenti family in Chicago! They wanted the maritime codes locked in her inheritance! Marcus promised them her signature in exchange for forty percent of the narcotics lines!"
Celandine let out a horrified gasp from the doorway, her knuckles turning white against the ivory gown in her arms.
Garrick’s hand tightened around the grip of his assault weapon, a low growl rising in the enforcer’s chest. "Don Percival... Marcus is downstairs right now. In the private wine salon with the council delegates."
Percival looked down at Isabetta groveling on the floorboards. He reached out with his left hand, his tattooed fingers catching the gold chain around her neck.
With a single, effortless jerk, Percival snapped the necklace from her throat.
The heavy diamonds clattered across the floor like scattered teeth. Isabetta whimpered, pressing her face against his polished leather shoe.
"Take off the ring, Isabetta," Percival whispered.
Isabetta didn't hesitate. With slick, trembling fingers, she ripped the seven-carat engagement ring from her left knuckle, dropping the platinum band into the pool of spilled perfume on the vanity glass.
Percival didn't touch the ring. He looked at Garrick.
"Lock her in the cold storage vault beneath the stables," Percival commanded, his voice steady as an iron bar. "Strip her shoes, her phone, and her earrings. If she screams, gag her with her own dress."
"Percival, please!" Isabetta wailed as Garrick seized her by the upper arms, hauling her upright with brutal efficiency. "Marcus has thirty men on the perimeter! If you touch him, the Chicago syndicate will burn your docks to the waterline!"
"Let them bring their matches, Isabetta," Percival said softly, turning his back on her as she was dragged screaming down the corridor.
He walked to the open French doors, stepping out onto the wet stone terrace into the falling rain.
He looked down at the courtyard below.
Parked beside the estate's private fountain was an unmarked black sedan with its engine idling, its parking lights glowing amber through the autumn mist.
Standing beside the rear door was a woman draped in an oversized dark overcoat, her hair wet, holding her right hand against her ribs.
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She looked up at the second-floor balcony.
For two agonizing seconds, through the rain and the golden light of the estate lanterns, their eyes met.
