Chapter 7
Rosamund didn't hesitate. With trembling, slick fingers, she twisted the seven-carat emerald-cut diamond ring off her left hand. The platinum scraped against her swollen knuckle before coming free with a tiny, pathetic metallic clink. She set the ring on the corner of the mahogany desk, her hand shaking so hard she had to clutch her wrist to stop the tremor.
Cillian didn't touch the ring. He looked at Linnea.
“Pick it up, Linnea,” Cillian said.
Linnea froze, her hazel eyes widening in disbelief. “Mr. Westcott... I can’t. That’s—"
“Pick it up,” Cillian repeated, his voice carrying the immovable weight of a mountain. “It was purchased with money stolen from your father’s logistics contracts thirty years ago. It belongs to you far more than it ever belonged to her.”
Linnea took two hesitant steps forward, her flat shoes silent on the rug. Her slender fingers reached out and lifted the heavy diamond from the mahogany. The stone caught the amber glow of the fireplace, refracting sharp shards of white and crimson light across her palm.
Rosamund let out a strangled, furious whimper from the floor, watching a housemaid hold the symbol of the city's highest criminal throne, but a single cold glance from Cillian suffocated whatever protest was rising in her throat.
Cillian walked to the study door, opened it, and spoke into the hallway. “Dominic.”
The six-foot-three enforcer stepped through the threshold immediately, dressed in a dark tactical suit, his hands folded behind his back. “Yes, Boss.”
“Escort Miss Vance to the guest cottage near the north gate,” Cillian ordered, not sparing a glance at his former fiancée. “Strip her of her phone, her passport, and her jewelry. She is not to leave the perimeter. If a single vehicle approaches that gate tonight without my personal clearance, put two rounds through the engine block and take the driver alive.”
“Understood, Don Cillian,” Dominic said.
He reached down, grabbed Rosamund firmly by the upper arm, and hauled her to her feet with mechanical efficiency. Rosamund didn't fight back; her spirit was entirely broken. She allowed herself to be dragged out of the study, her torn silk gown trailing behind her like a shroud.
Once the door clicked shut, only Arthur remained, sitting hunched in the wingback chair, staring at the floorboards between his shoes.
“And me, Cillian?” Arthur rasped, his voice barely audible over the crackling cedar logs. “Do you put your father in a cellar too?”
Cillian walked behind the old man’s chair, resting both of his tattooed hands on the high leather backrest. He leaned down, his voice a low, intimate murmur directly into Arthur’s ear.
“You are going to the country estate in Vermont tonight, Father,” Cillian whispered. “You will have your scotch. You will have your books. You will have your garden. But you will never hold a telephone again. You will never speak to a capo again. And if you ever set foot south of the Westchester county line, I will not send Dominic to bring you back. I will send an undertaker.”
Arthur closed his eyes, a single, bitter tear tracking through the deep crevices of his weathered cheek. He knew when a war was lost. He had taught Cillian how to wage it, and now he was being dismantled by his own masterpiece.
“You’ve become a monster, Cillian,” Arthur muttered.
“I became what you built, Arthur,” Cillian replied softly, straightening up. “You just didn't expect the monster to turn around and look at the architect.”
Cillian tapped the desk twice. The two old capos stepped forward, took Arthur gently by the elbows, and helped the broken patriarch to his feet, leading him slowly out into the darkened corridor.
The room fell into an absolute, ringing silence.
Cillian walked to the heavy French windows that looked out over the sprawling, moonlit gardens below. The lawn was quiet now. The luminous golden glow of the afternoon had vanished, replaced by the cool, silver brilliance of a full autumn moon.
Linnea remained standing near the hearth, the diamond ring heavy in her hand, the cashmere towel still draped over her shoulders.
“Mr. Westcott,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly in the cavernous quiet.
Cillian turned slowly, the moonlight catching the silver streaks in his dark, wavy hair. “You should rest, Linnea. Mrs. Gable has prepared the guest suite on the east wing for you. You don't wear an apron in this house anymore.”
Linnea looked down at the diamond in her palm, then back into his striking, angular face.
“Why did you do this?” she asked, searching his cold grey eyes. “You could have taken the ledger and handled Rosamund in private. You didn't have to humiliate your family in front of the entire city just to protect me.”
Cillian walked toward her, stopping three paces away. The faint scent of cedar and fine tobacco drifted between them.
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“My family humiliated themselves thirty years ago when they chose money over honor, Linnea,” Cillian said, his voice dropping into that deep, hypnotic baritone. “I didn't protect you to make a point. I protected you because you are the only person on this entire estate who didn't lie to me today.”
Before Linnea could answer, the red landline telephone on Cillian’s desk began to ring.
