Chapter 3
The pavilion became so still that the faint murmur of the harbor wind two miles away seemed to vibrate through the canvas.
Rosamund’s fair skin flushed an ugly, mottled red. “Shut your mouth, you filthy girl! How dare you speak to me?!”
“Let her speak,” Cillian commanded.
He didn't turn around. He kept his eyes locked on Rosamund, but his left hand extended slightly behind him, an unspoken barrier protecting Linnea from Arthur’s hovering bodyguards.
Linnea took a slow, steady breath. She reached deep into the hidden interior pocket of her damp white apron. When her hand emerged, she wasn't holding crumpled hundred-dollar bills.
She was holding a small, matte-black leather ledger bound with a heavy elastic strap, stamped with the embossed initials: A.W.
Arthur’s cane slipped an inch on the smooth flagstones. The old man’s breath hitched in his throat, a sound like dry parchment tearing.
“Where did you get that?” Arthur rasped, his voice suddenly stripped of all haughty authority.
“I found it under the floorboards in the third-floor linen closet this morning,” Linnea said, holding the ledger out toward Cillian. “Miss Rosamund spent forty minutes tearing through my quarters before the guests arrived. When she couldn't find it, she dragged me onto this terrace and told the guests I was a thief who needed to be disciplined.”
Cillian took the small black book. His tattooed thumb brushed over the cracked leather, recognizing his father’s private bookkeeping from fifteen years ago—the secret accounts that had supposedly vanished in a warehouse fire along with Linnea’s father.
“You told me this burned, Arthur,” Cillian murmured, his baritone dropping to a dangerous, vibrating hum.
Arthur’s eyes darted frantically toward the garden gates, then toward the capos standing along the lawn. “Cillian... that is private family history. It has nothing to do with today's celebration.”
“It has everything to do with today,” Cillian said. He flicked the ledger open with a snap of his wrist. His eyes scanned the first page, taking in the handwritten columns of offshore transfers, maritime route concessions, and corporate shell entities.
His gaze stopped on a signature dated three days ago.
A signature penned in fresh, vibrant blue ink: Rosamund Vance-Westcott.
Cillian looked up from the page, his expression entirely unreadable. He looked at Rosamund, whose knuckles were now pressed desperately against her lips, her diamond ring catching the dying sunlight.
“You’ve been very busy, Rosamund,” Cillian said softly. “Signing away sixty percent of our northern freight terminals to the Callahan syndicate before we even exchange vows.”
A collective gasp rippled through the gathered elite. In the Westcott organization, dealing with the Callahans was not an infraction; it was high treason, punishable by an unmarked grave in the Jersey marshes.
“Cillian, listen to me!” Rosamund pleaded, her voice breaking into a panicked shriek. “Your father authorized it! Arthur said the Callahans had the federal prosecutors bought! He said if we didn't merge the routes, the entire family would face RICO indictments by the end of the year!”
“My father doesn't own the routes,” Cillian said.
He closed the ledger with a quiet thud that sounded like a coffin lid snapping shut.
Cillian turned his head toward the guest who had earlier raised the hundred-dollar bill. “Senator Hayes.”
The man flinched, stepping out from the arbor with trembling hands. “Yes... yes, Mr. Westcott?”
“You brought five hundred dollars to watch a woman crawl,” Cillian said, his pauses deliberate, his voice low enough that the man had to lean in to catch every syllable. “Step forward.”
Hayes hesitated, glancing at Arthur for help, but Arthur was staring at the black ledger in Cillian’s hand like a condemned prisoner staring at the gallows.
“I said step forward, Julian,” Cillian repeated.
Hayes dragged his feet across the flagstones until he stood two paces from Linnea’s chair.
“Empty your wallet onto the table,” Cillian commanded. “Every dollar. Every credit card. Your watch. Your signet ring.”
“Cillian, please!” Hayes stammered, sweat breaking out across his rosy forehead. “I am a state representative! My uncle—"
“Your uncle will be notified that you died of a sudden coronary if you don't have those items on the table before I count to three,” Cillian whispered.
Within four seconds, Hayes had emptied his pockets, dropping a thick gold Rolex, two thousand dollars in crisp cash, and three platinum cards onto the linen cloth.
May you like
Cillian didn't touch the pile. He turned to Linnea.
“Take it,” Cillian said softly to the maid. “Consider it the first installment on the debt my family owes yours.”
