Lottie stood terrified as hostess Vesper Alderbrook seized her chin, pressed a crystal water goblet from the head table against her tightly closed lips, and softly threatened the child to drink if she wanted her mother to stay.

"Julian," Vesper whispered from the bench, her voice barely a thread of sound in the cavernous quiet. "Oh, God. Julian is alive."

Godwin didn't look at her. He lowered his weapon, clicking the safety into place, and walked toward the center of the room. He knelt on one knee and set Lottie gently on her feet on an unsoiled patch of carpet.

"Look at me, Lottie," Godwin said.

The little girl looked at him, her hazel eyes solemn, reflecting the cold white light of the chandeliers. Her party dress was crumpled, but her rosy cheeks were clean, untouched by the smoke or blood.

"Is the bad man gone?" she asked.

"Marcus is gone," Godwin said. "And the men who hurt your mother won't ever come back into this house."

"And Aunt Vesper?" Lottie turned her gaze toward the trembling woman on the bench.

Godwin stood up to his full height. "Kane."

"Yes, Mr. Alderbrook?" Kane stepped forward, his submachine gun hanging from a tactical sling, his face smudged with soot.

"Take Vesper down to the holding cells beneath the carriage house," Godwin commanded. "Strip her of her jewelry, her phone, and her shoes. Give her water from the kitchen tap. If she speaks, gag her."

"Godwin! Please!" Vesper shrieked, scrambling to her knees, clawing at his trouser legs. "I didn't know Julian was behind it! Marcus told me it was Chicago! Julian will kill me if he finds out I failed! He’ll kill my son!"

Godwin looked down at her with eyes as flat and cold as a frozen lake. "You should have thought about children before you put aconite in my glass."

Kane seized Vesper by the elbows, hauling her to her feet with brutal efficiency, dragging her kicking and sobbing through the shattered service door toward the rear tunnel.

The heavy door banged shut behind them, leaving Godwin alone in the ruined ballroom with Lottie.

Godwin walked over to Marcus’s body. He reached into the dead man’s inside jacket pocket, past the warm, sticky blood, and pulled out a slim, encrypted satellite phone. The screen was still illuminated, displaying an incoming call from an unlisted European number.

Godwin tapped the speakerphone icon. He didn't speak. He held the phone flat in his palm and waited.

A voice with an aristocratic American accent—smooth, cultivated, and chillingly familiar—drifted through the speaker, accompanied by the faint hiss of trans-Atlantic satellite static.

"Marcus," the voice said, entirely calm. "Report. Is the old man dead?"

Godwin stared at the glowing screen.

"Julian," Godwin spoke into the microphone, his tone steady, devoid of all emotion. "You always were terrible at choosing contractors."

The line went dead silent on the other end. For five agonizing seconds, the only sound was the white noise of the satellite relay.

Then, a low, familiar laugh rasped through the speaker.

"Godwin," Julian said, the amusement evident in every syllable. "I see you haven't lost your reflexes. Did you enjoy the anniversary vintage?"

"Clara took the glass, Julian," Godwin said. "She’s in the hospital. She’s going to live."

"A maid," Julian sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed. "What a pedestrian waste of eighty thousand dollars of aconite. But I suppose collateral damage is inevitable in family matters."