Linnea Bramley stood with her head bowed beneath the garden pavilion as Cillian’s fiancée Rosamund poured a full flute of champagne directly over the housemaid’s head

The sun dipped below the palisades, plunging the estate gardens into deep twilight.

Cillian didn't wait for the guests to clear the pavilion. With a wave of his hand, his personal enforcer, Dominic, stepped forward with six armed men, locking the ornate wrought-iron gates of the estate and escorting the terrified guests into the lower ballroom under strict orders of silence.

Cillian led Linnea through the heavy mahogany doors of the main manor house, past the oil portraits of long-dead Westcott warlords, and into his private second-floor study.

The room smelled of old paper, leather, and cedar. A roaring hearth cast dancing orange shadows across the wood-paneled walls.

Cillian closed the heavy double doors, throwing the brass deadbolt with a solid, reassuring click. He walked to the adjoining bathroom, retrieved a thick, dry cashmere towel, and walked back to where Linnea stood shivering near the Persian rug.

He didn't hand it to her.

Gently, with an intimacy that felt almost shocking after the violence outside, Cillian draped the soft towel over her damp shoulders. His hands—etched with delicate geometric ink work—lingered for a second near her collarbone before falling back to his sides.

“Sit by the fire, Linnea,” he said, his baritone softening by degrees.

Linnea pulled the towel tight around her neck, her teeth chattering faintly. She sank into the deep leather armchair beside the hearth, holding her hands out toward the warmth.

“I didn't steal it, Mr. Westcott,” Linnea whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion. “I was cleaning the baseboards in the storage room. The panel was loose. I saw your father’s seal on the cover.”

Cillian poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass and handed it to her. “Drink. It will stop the shaking.”

Linnea took the glass, her small fingers brushing against his family signet ring. She took a sip, coughing slightly as the alcohol burned its way down her throat, but the color returned to her rosy cheeks.

“Why didn't you run, Linnea?” Cillian asked, leaning against the edge of his massive mahogany desk, crossing his arms. “You had the ledger at noon. You could have taken a train to Chicago before the first guest arrived.”

Linnea looked up, her wide hazel eyes reflecting the firelight. “Where would I go? Your father’s hounds are in every station between here and the border. And... I knew what was in the book.”

“Did you read it?”

“I read the entries from six years ago,” Linnea said, her voice dropping to a painful, ragged whisper. “The night the North River warehouse burned. The night my father died.”

Cillian looked down at the amber liquid in his own glass. The muscle along his jaw ticked once.

“What did the ledger say?” he asked quietly.

“It said the fire wasn't an accident,” Linnea answered, tears welling in her eyes once more. “It said Arthur paid two hundred thousand dollars to an arsonist named Miller. And it said the shipment of machine tools my father was guarding was never inside the building. It had already been moved to Rosamund’s family estate in Newport.”

Cillian set his glass onto the desk. The crystal met the polished wood with a dull, final thud.

“Your father was an honest man, Linnea,” Cillian murmured, the pauses between his words stretching like execution ropes. “That was his only crime in this house. He refused to let Arthur use the shipping company to move illegal munitions for the Callahans.”

“And you?” Linnea asked, her voice trembling as she looked straight into the cold, handsome face of the city’s most feared crime boss. “Did you know? Did you let them burn him?”

Cillian stepped away from the desk, kneeling down on one knee before her chair so his steel-grey eyes were level with hers.

“I was in Sicily six years ago, Linnea,” Cillian said, his voice flat, steady, and terrifyingly sincere. “When I came back, the ashes were cold, and my father told me your father had stolen the cargo and fled to South America. It was only three years ago that I found you working in a scullery in Queens and brought you here.”

Linnea’s breath hitched. “You brought me here to watch me?”

“I brought you here to keep you alive,” Cillian said softly, reaching out to tuck a damp stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Because I knew that as long as you were beneath my roof, Arthur wouldn't dare finish the job.”

The heavy brass handle of the study door rattled violently.