Chapter 2
The chandeliers seemed to hum under the weight of the room’s silence.
Drusilla pressed her trembling fingers against her burning cheek, the pearls at her collarbone rattling against each other. "You wouldn't dare, Anselm," she hissed, though the tremor in her throat betrayed her. "Not here. Not in front of the commission. Not in front of our father's men."
Anselm did not blink. His hand remained firm on Merrilee’s shoulder, a monument of stone anchoring the frightened child to the earth.
"Our father?" Anselm said, his voice slicing through the stillness with chilling clarity. "You spent forty years repeating that lie until you believed it was gospel. But the men at that table know the truth. Don Silvio remembers. Don Mateo remembers."
At the high table, two silver-haired patriarchs kept their gazes locked on their untouched plates. Neither man raised an objection.
"In the winter of seventy-nine," Anselm continued, his words measured like drops of acid, "a loan shark named Paulie Vane bled out in an alley behind the Fulton Fish Market because he stole two hundred thousand dollars from the family treasury. He left behind a debt he couldn't pay, a terrified mistress, and a three-year-old girl with nowhere to sleep."
Drusilla’s face lost every vestige of color. The crimson welt on her cheek burned like an open wound against her sudden, ash-gray pallor. "Stop it. Shut your mouth, Anselm!"
"My father had a soft spot for strays," Anselm said coldly, his eyes boring into hers. "He didn't put a bullet in your cradle. He gave you his surname. He gave you this mansion, the silk dresses, the private tutors, and an allowance drawn from our docks. He let you pretend you were born to the bloodline so you wouldn't spend your childhood in an orphanage dormitory."
A collective murmur broke out among the younger soldiers and distant cousins lining the perimeter of the room. Whispers spread like wildfire along the tables: A debt-collector’s bastard. Not a Penrose. A charity case.
"You sat at this banquet tonight," Anselm said, taking a slow step toward her chair, "wearing jewels paid for by my syndicate, and dared to call my daughter a stray. You took the brooch off her chest and put it on a beast."
Drusilla scrambled to her feet, her heels catching on the hem of her gown. Her dignity was shattered, replaced by an animalistic panic. "She isn't your blood! You plucked her from a burning tenement in Queens! You dragged an unvetted child into our lineage to spite me, to keep the trust funds out of my hands!"
"Merrilee is my daughter because I signed the paper, I gave her my name, and I am willing to burn this city to ash to keep her safe," Anselm said. His voice dropped to a register that made the security detail along the walls stiffen to attention. "You, on the other hand, exist in this house solely by my mercy. And my mercy has expired."
Drusilla looked around the room, wild-eyed. "Silvio! Mateo! Are you going to let him do this? The Penrose charter requires a blood tribunal before any member is stripped of their title!"
Don Silvio, the oldest capo in the room, finally lifted his head. His eyes were milky with age, but his voice was dry and unforgiving. "The charter protects the sons and daughters of the founders, Drusilla. Your father was a bookmaker named Vane. You have no seat at our council."
Drusilla took a stumbling step backward. Her lip curled back over her teeth in a venomous sneer, her eyes darting between Anselm and the little girl hiding behind his trousers.
"You think this is over, brother?" she spat, the word dripping with poison. "You think you can run the waterfront with a toddler around your neck? There are people in this city who don't care about your sentimental garbage. They know you're soft now. They've already made their moves."
"Let them move," Anselm replied, his tone devoid of fear. "Cassian."
From the shadows near the service doors, Anselm’s chief of operations stepped forward. Broad-shouldered, scarred across the jaw, and carrying a suppressed automatic beneath his tailored jacket, Cassian nodded once.
"Escort Miss Vane to the front gate," Anselm instructed without taking his eyes off her. "She takes the dress on her back and the shoes on her feet. Her bank cards are cancelled. Her penthouse lease in Manhattan is terminated as of midnight. If she is seen within five miles of this estate after sunrise, put her in the bay."
"Understood, Boss," Cassian said. Two armed guards moved in, flanking Drusilla before she could scream another word. They seized her elbows, hauling her away through the side corridor as Baxter whimpered on his velvet chair.
Anselm turned his back on her exit. He knelt before Merrilee once more, taking a white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently wiping away a tear that had dried on her rosy cheek.
"Daddy," Merrilee whispered, holding up the gold brooch in her small palms. "Can you put it back on?"
Anselm took the brooch. With steady, deliberate hands, he pinned the serpent and anchor back onto the wool of her rose cardigan, directly over her heart.
"It stays there forever, Merrilee," he told her softly. "No one takes it from you. Not today, not ever."
He lifted her into his arms, carrying her away from the banquet table toward the grand marble staircase. But as they reached the landing, the chandeliers flickered twice, and the heavy mahogany doors of the estate’s private communication room burst open.
May you like
A junior operative rushed out, his face pale with dread.
"Mr. Penrose," the man whispered frantically, keeping his voice low so the guests below wouldn't hear. "The northern warehouse at Pier 14. It just went up in flames. And they found the watchmen dead with Valenti calling cards in their mouths."
