Chapter 5
Cillian did not rush. He stood up with fluid grace, adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke suit, and walked slowly to the door. He turned the deadbolt and pulled the heavy panel inward.
Arthur stood in the corridor, his face flushed purple with apoplectic rage. Behind him stood Rosamund, her mascara streaked down her fair cheeks, her engagement gown ruined by nervous sweat, flanked by two elderly capos from the family’s advisory board.
“You have lost your goddamn mind, boy!” Arthur snarled, pushing past Cillian into the study, his cane striking the parquet floor like a hammer. “You locked thirty of our most influential donors in the ballroom! You humiliated Senator Hayes! You stripped Rosamund of her dignity in front of the entire eastern seaboard!”
Cillian closed the door behind them, leaning his broad shoulders against the wood. He crossed his ankles, his hands resting easily in his trouser pockets.
“Her dignity was gone the moment she poured wine on an innocent girl for pocket money,” Cillian said, his voice smooth and conversational.
Rosamund rounded on him, pointing a manicured finger at Linnea, who remained seated by the fire. “She is a servant! She is the daughter of a traitor! Cillian, look at what you’re doing! You’re tearing our alliance apart over a girl who washes your dishes!”
“She washes my dishes because your father and mine murdered hers,” Cillian replied, not a single trace of anger in his tone.
The room went dead silent. The two old capos standing near the bookcase exchanged uneasy, alarmed glances.
Arthur’s hand tightened around the handle of his cane until his knuckles turned white. “That is ancient history! Marcus Bramley was weak! He threatened to go to the federal marshals! In this business, weakness is a capital offense!”
“And what do you call signing our docks over to the Callahans, Arthur?” Cillian asked, taking a single, measured step away from the door. “Is that strength? Or is that an old coward selling his son’s empire because he’s terrified of dying in a federal prison?”
“The Callahans have the judiciary in their pocket!” Arthur bellowed, his voice cracking with age. “They have thirty judges in Manhattan! We needed their political umbrella! Rosamund’s father arranged the merger! The marriage was supposed to cement the treaty!”
“The marriage was supposed to be a leash,” Cillian corrected him, his eyes shifting to Rosamund. “A leash held by the Callahans, fastened around my neck, with you holding the handle.”
Rosamund took a frantic step backward, her heels clicking on the hardwood. “Cillian, please... I had no choice. My father said—"
“Your father died six months ago, Rosamund,” Cillian interrupted, his voice dropping into that chilling, measured cadence. “You made this deal last Tuesday. At the St. Regis. Room four-twelve. With Tommy Callahan.”
Rosamund’s jaw dropped. The last bit of color drained from her face, leaving her as pale as salt.
“You... you had me followed?” she whispered.
“I own the hotel, Rosamund,” Cillian said softly, a dark, humorless smirk touching his lips. “I own the bellhops. I own the parking attendants. And I own the audio recordings of you promising Tommy that once we were married, Cillian Westcott would suffer an unfortunate, fatal overdose during our honeymoon in Monaco.”
Linnea gasped from the armchair, clutching the cashmere towel to her chest.
Arthur froze, his rheumy eyes darting toward Rosamund in genuine, horrified shock. Even the old patriarch hadn't anticipated that degree of betrayal.
“Rosamund...” Arthur rasped, his voice trembling. “Is this true? You promised them Cillian’s life?”
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Rosamund didn't answer. Her eyes darted frantically toward the window, then toward the study door, realizing with sickening clarity that the trap she had helped design had closed around her own throat.
“You see, Father,” Cillian murmured, walking slowly toward his desk. “You thought you were playing chess with an old ally. But you were just the bait she used to get inside my house.”
