Chapter 7
Percival’s heart slammed against his ribs with concussive force, but his body remained an immovable pillar of stone.
Through the rain-swept darkness, the woman raised her right hand. The amber light of the courtyard lantern illuminated her open palm—the thick, jagged scar of an anchor cutting across the fair, rosy skin of her wrist.
Before Percival could vault the stone balustrade, the rear door of the sedan was pulled open from within. A man in a dark trench coat reached out, seized Genevieve by the arm, and pulled her roughly into the vehicle. The door slammed shut with a heavy, metallic thud.
The sedan accelerated with a screech of burning rubber, spinning across the wet gravel of the circular drive and tearing toward the southern service gate.
"Garrick!" Percival’s voice boomed down the corridor—not loud, but vibrating with a terrifying, absolute authority that echoed off the mahogany rafters.
Garrick sprinted back into the master bedroom, his tactical radio already raised. "Boss?"
"Black sedan, unmarked, heading for the south gate," Percival commanded, his eyes tracking the red taillights cutting through the pine trees below. "Do not engage with heavy caliber. The asset is inside. I repeat: Genevieve is inside that vehicle."
Garrick went rigid. "Don Percival... your wife?"
"She was alive five seconds ago," Percival said, turning toward the doorway. "Marcus didn't sell her to Chicago. He was keeping her on this mountain until the wedding was finalized."
He walked briskly down the east gallery, his dark suit billowing behind him. Celandine stood beside the bedroom door, still clutching the ivory wedding gown against her apron.
Percival stopped beside the young maid. He reached out, his rough, calloused thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from her cheek.
"You did good tonight, Celandine," Percival murmured, his raspy baritone softening with rare, profound sincerity. "You preserved what mattered."
"Is she coming back, Don Percival?" Celandine whispered, looking into his slate-gray eyes.
"She is coming home," Percival promised. "Take the gown down to the vault safe in my office. Lock it with the master cipher. And stay with the guards until I return."
He didn't wait for an answer. Percival took the grand marble staircase three steps at a time, entering the lower foyer where forty armed Hawthorne soldiers stood assembled in full tactical readiness.
The festive music had stopped. The crystal chandeliers flickered as the estate's backup generators hummed to life.
At the center of the grand foyer stood Marcus Hawthorne. At forty-two, Percival’s younger brother looked striking, handsome, and impeccably tailored in a dark tuxedo, his hair neatly combed, holding a half-empty glass of vintage bourbon. He wore an expression of smug, practiced innocence.
"Percival," Marcus called out, raising his glass with an easy, mocking grin. "What’s all this racket with the security protocols? The council delegates are getting nervous downstairs. Did Isabetta misplace her bouquet?"
Percival did not answer with words.
May you like
He closed the twenty-foot distance between them in four long, terrifying strides.
Before Marcus could lower his glass, Percival’s left hand struck like lightning, catching Marcus by the throat with hydraulic force, lifting his younger brother completely off the marble floorboards and slamming him backward against the limestone pillar.
