Chapter 6 - Blood Against Blood
In the winter conservatory, the air was thick with the scent of damp orchids and cold panic.
Thirty-nine guests stood along the perimeter of the soaring glass structure, their faces pale under the green foliage and hanging lanterns. Surrounding them were eight of Hector’s sentries, their heavy trench coats unbuttoned to reveal submachine guns held at low ready.
Julian Ravenswick stood near a towering ficus tree, dabbing his perspiring brow with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. At thirty-eight, Julian had the sculpted, clean-shaven jaw of an Ivy League athlete, slicked-back brown hair, and gold-rimmed glasses that gave him an air of academic sophistication. But beneath the facade, his fingers shook so violently that his drink sloshed over the rim of his glass.
The heavy double doors of the conservatory groaned open.
Hector entered alone.
His overcoat was open, his dark suit impeccable, his eyes scanning the crowd with lethal, calculating calm. Every conversation in the room evaporated instantly.
Hector walked to the center of the flagstone floor, stopping ten feet from Julian.
"Good evening, Julian," Hector said.
Julian forced a hollow chuckle, stepping forward with his hands raised in supplication. "Hector! Thank God. What on earth is happening? The guards won't let anyone leave! Some of the cousins are terrified. What did Odette do?"
Hector didn't answer. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed Julian’s burner phone onto the stone floor between them. It bounced, skittering against Julian’s polished dress shoes.
Julian froze.
"That's a very expensive satellite phone, Cousin," Hector remarked, his voice smooth and deadly. "Registered to an offshore shell company in the Cayman Islands. The same shell company that wired two hundred thousand dollars to a corrupt family court judge in Albany at noon today."
Julian’s face drained of color until his fair skin looked like wax. He swallowed, his eyes darting toward the exits, only to find the barrels of Marcus and Donovan’s weapons pointed directly at his chest.
"Hector... you're confused," Julian stammered, his American accent trembling. "I’ve been managing the logistics accounts! I don't know what Odette—"
"She gave me the Albany petition, Julian," Hector said softly. "And she told me about the black van parked behind the south service barn."
Julian’s facade shattered into raw, cornered fury. He dropped the handkerchief, his jaw clenching with venomous resentment.
"And why shouldn't I?" Julian spat, his voice rising into a sharp, hysterical register that echoed off the glass walls. "You built this empire on the backs of all of us! Our fathers bled for the Ravenswick name! And what do you do? You intend to leave ninety percent of the entire shipping network to a three-year-old bastard girl! A child who doesn't even understand what a freight manifest is!"
A collective gasp swept through the assembled elders. Silas Ravenswick stepped forward, his ivory cane shaking in his hand. "Silence, Julian! You speak of the Don’s blood!"
"I speak of our survival!" Julian screamed, gesturing wildly at the room. "If Hector died tomorrow without an heir of age, the federal prosecutors would dismantle the trust! The state would seize the docks! I was saving this family from ruin!"
"You were saving your own bank accounts," Hector replied coldly.
Hector moved.
He didn't draw a weapon. He closed the ten-foot distance in half a second, his massive right fist slamming into Julian’s jaw like a sledgehammer.
The impact cracked like a gunshot. Julian was lifted off his feet, his glasses shattering into dust as his body crashed through a glass display table of potted hydrangeas. Terracotta shards, dirt, and purple petals exploded across the floor.
Julian groaned on the stones, coughing blood, clutching his broken jaw.
Hector stood over him, looking down with the cold indifference of an executioner. "The Ravenswick code was written eighty years ago by our grandfathers. We kill rivals. We kill traitors. But we never, ever touch the cradle."
Hector glanced at Silas Ravenswick. "Uncle Silas. As head of the council of elders, what is the sentence for kin who conspire against the bloodline?"
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Silas looked down at Julian with unmasked disgust, spat upon the flagstones, and turned his back.
"Strip him of his name," Silas rasped. "Strip him of his blood. Let the earth forget he ever lived."
