Chapter 3
The private study on the second floor smelled of old leather, cuban tobacco, and polished gun oil.
Anselm set Merrilee down on the deep velvet sofa by the unlit hearth. He draped his heavy charcoal overcoat over her small shoulders, tucking the hem around her patent-leather shoes until she was wrapped in a cocoon of warm wool.
"Stay here with Mrs. Gable, sweetheart," Anselm murmured, smoothing the dark curls away from her forehead. "Daddy has business downstairs."
Mrs. Gable, the trusted older governess who had raised Anselm after his own mother passed, stood silently in the corner, holding a cup of warm chamomile tea. She nodded grimly to her employer.
Merrilee reached out from under the coat, her small fingers catching the edge of Anselm’s waistcoat. "The bad lady said people are coming, Daddy. Are they going to take the serpent?"
Anselm paused. He caught her tiny hand, pressing his gold signet ring against her knuckles. "Nobody takes anything from this house, Merrilee. Go to sleep. When you wake up, the sun will be out, and the noise will be gone."
He stood, buttoned his waistcoat, and walked out into the corridor, closing the heavy oak door behind him. The lock engaged with a sharp, heavy click.
Cassian was waiting on the landing, his phone pressed to his ear, his face carved into grim lines. Down in the grand foyer, the eighty banquet guests were being ushered out through the rear garden gates under armed escort, their expensive sedans rolling away into the night in hurried confusion.
"Give it to me straight," Anselm said, walking down the marble stairs.
"Pier 14 is a total loss," Cassian reported, pocketing the phone. "The fire spread through the cargo containers holding our imported electronics and the southern payroll. Three million in cash, burned to cinder. Four guards executed—two through the back of the head, two had their throats cut. The shooters didn't use local steel. They used submachine guns with military-grade armor-piercing rounds."
"Valenti doesn't have that kind of hardware," Anselm said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits as they entered the underground operations room beneath the wine cellar. "Nico Valenti runs gambling dens and half-rate protection rackets in Brooklyn. He doesn't execute my dockworkers with tactical gear unless someone handed him the weapons and the keys to the gate."
"Drusilla," Cassian said plainly.
"Drusilla couldn't coordinate a hit on an alley cat by herself," Anselm countered, stepping up to the wide tactical map laid out across the steel table. "She’s arrogant, but she’s stupid. She was a distraction tonight. She created a scene at the banquet to pull my attention to the head table, to keep my captains seated and drinking while the strike team hit Pier 14."
"Then who is bankrolling Valenti?"
Before Cassian could answer, the heavy steel security doors at the far end of the corridor groaned on their hinges. Two guards entered, dragging a battered man between them.
The prisoner was wearing a blood-splattered mechanic’s jumpsuit. His lip was split, his right eye swollen shut, and grease covered his forearms.
"We caught him trying to slip through the southern perimeter fence twenty minutes ago," the lead guard reported, throwing the man onto the concrete floor. "He was driving Drusilla’s secondary town car. We found three burner phones and an encrypted radio in the spare tire compartment."
Anselm walked over slowly, his polished leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone. He stopped an inch from the man’s face, looking down with absolute detachment.
"Tommy," Anselm said, recognizing him immediately. "You’ve worked in my private motor pool for seven years. I paid for your mother’s bypass surgery in Boston three months ago."
The mechanic sobbed, pressing his forehead against the cold concrete. "Mr. Penrose... please... they had my sister! They were waiting at her apartment in Hoboken! They said if I didn't disable the security cameras at the pier and leave the gate code in the town car, they'd cut her into pieces!"
Anselm knelt down, resting his forearm on his knee. "Who are 'they,' Tommy?"
"The... the suits from Chicago," Tommy choked out, trembling so hard his teeth rattled. "The Moretti syndicate. They sent an extraction unit into the city two days ago. Drusilla met with their lieutenant at the Plaza Hotel on Tuesday. She promised them the eastern shipping lanes if they helped her remove you and take control of the family trust."
Anselm’s face remained completely still, but a terrifying gleam ignited behind his dark pupils.
"The Moretti family," Anselm whispered. "They broke the thirty-year treaty for the eastern docks."
"They're not just hitting the docks, Mr. Penrose," Tommy wept, looking up with raw horror. "They're coming here. Drusilla told them the estate would be in chaos after the banquet. She told them to hit the master wing before dawn. She said... she said kill the girl first so you’d lose your mind and make a mistake."
Anselm stood up. He did not yell. He did not curse. He simply turned to Cassian.
"Kill the external power grid to the estate," Anselm commanded, his voice dropping into pure ice. "Switch to backup diesel generators on silent mode. Move twelve men with rifles to the treeline. And bring my custom twelve-gauge from the armory."
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"What about Tommy, Boss?" Cassian asked.
Anselm glanced down at the mechanic on the floor. "Put him in a cell. If his sister is still alive in Hoboken when the sun comes up, we’ll bring her home. If she isn't, Tommy digs his own grave."
