Chapter 6
The grandfather clock in the corner of the study ticked with agonizing, heavy precision.
The two elderly capos who had accompanied Arthur quietly took two steps backward, putting distance between themselves and Rosamund. In the underworld of New York, bad business could be forgiven with cash; plotting the murder of the sitting Don was a death sentence that extended to everyone standing within arm's reach of the traitor.
“I didn't want to do it, Cillian!” Rosamund screamed suddenly, her composure completely shattering into hysterical sobs. She threw herself toward the desk, her knees hitting the Persian rug as she clawed at the polished wood. “Tommy Callahan threatened my brother! He said if I didn't deliver the Westcott shipping lines, they would butcher Leo in his dorm in Boston!”
Cillian didn't look down at her. He reached out and picked up his leather cigar case, opening the gold latch with a quiet click.
“Your brother Leo hasn't been in Boston for three weeks, Rosamund,” Cillian said, selecting a dark Maduro and clipping the end with a small silver tool. “He’s currently on a yacht in the Bahamas, drinking hundred-dollar rum paid for by the Callahan wire transfer you authorized on Monday.”
Rosamund’s sobs choked in her throat. She looked up at him, her painted face ruined by tears and smeared mascara, realizing that every lie she had spun had already been dissected and filed away in Cillian’s archives weeks ago.
“You knew,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “You knew the entire time. Why did you let the party happen? Why did you announce the engagement?”
Cillian struck a cedar match. The small, bright flame flared to life, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the dark stubble on his jaw, and the cold, unyielding grey of his eyes. He took a slow, rhythmic draw from the cigar before blowing a thin plume of grey smoke toward the ceiling.
“Because a rat doesn't come out of the wall until you put fresh cheese on the floor,” Cillian said smoothly. “I needed to see who would bid on the entertainment. I needed to see which of my father's old friends would raise their glasses to celebrate my execution.”
Arthur sank into an empty wingback chair, his hands trembling violently against the head of his cane. The old man looked smaller now, shrunken inside his expensive wool suit, the illusion of his absolute power evaporating like mist in the morning sun.
“What are you going to do with us, Cillian?” Arthur asked, his voice cracked and hollow. “I am your father. I built this family from blood and iron on the Brooklyn piers. You cannot execute your own blood.”
Cillian looked at his father through the haze of blue smoke.
“You taught me everything I know about blood, Arthur,” Cillian murmured, each pause between his words sharp as a straight razor. “You taught me that blood is only useful when it’s loyal. When it’s poisoned, you drain it.”
He turned his gaze toward Linnea, who was watching the scene from the armchair, her small hands resting in her lap.
“Linnea,” Cillian called softly.
The maid looked up, her fair cheeks flushed from the fire. “Yes, Mr. Westcott?”
“Stand up,” Cillian instructed gently.
Linnea rose, the cashmere towel draping over her slender frame like a queen's mantle.
Cillian reached into his suit pocket, pulled out the heavy signet ring he had taken from Senator Hayes on the terrace, and tossed it onto the desk. Then, he looked down at Rosamund, who was still kneeling on the floor.
“Take it off, Rosamund,” Cillian commanded, his voice dropping to that lethal, terrifying register.
May you like
Rosamund blinked through her tears. “What?”
“The ring,” Cillian said. “The Westcott diamond. Take it off your finger and place it on the desk. Or Dominic will come in here with a pair of surgical shears and take the finger with it.”
