Chapter 5
The rain returned at 3:30 AM, washing over the blood-slicked stone terrace and dripping from the shattered frames of the French doors.
In the center of the devastated foyer, beneath the ruined crystal chandelier, two chairs had been placed face-to-face.
Anselm sat in one, his shotgun resting across his knees, a glass of water on the small table beside him. His suit was coated in a fine layer of gray plaster dust, but his posture was upright, relaxed, and entirely lethal.
The double doors of the front entrance flew open. Cassian and two operatives dragged Drusilla into the hall.
Her midnight-blue gown was covered in mud from the orchard; her heels were gone, her bare feet scratched and bleeding. Her elaborate updo had collapsed into wet, tangled strands across her face. When she saw the bodies of the six mercenaries lying wrapped in black tarps near the base of the staircase, her breath hitched in an involuntary scream.
The guards threw her into the chair opposite Anselm.
"You're a monster," Drusilla gasped, clutching her bruised ribs, her eyes wide with terror as she stared at the dark stains soaking into the Persian rug. "You slaughtered them like dogs!"
Anselm took a slow sip of water, set the glass down, and met her gaze.
"They came into my home to murder a three-year-old child in her bed," Anselm said softly. "They died much faster than they deserved."
"It wasn't my idea!" she shrieked, her voice bouncing shrilly off the high ceilings. "Moretti... Moretti said it had to be clean! He said if the child survived, the commission would always consider her the legal heir to your share of the docks! He said she had to be removed!"
"And you agreed," Anselm said.
"What choice did I have?" she cried, her tears cutting clean lines through the dirt on her cheeks. "You pushed me out! You gave that orphan everything! Our father's trust was supposed to be split between us, but you rewrote the bylaws the week you adopted her! You left me with scraps!"
"I left you with six million dollars in cash and a luxury apartment on Fifth Avenue," Anselm countered, his tone devoid of pity. "You gambled five million away in Monaco and gave the rest to a counterfeit art dealer in Milan. You didn't come for your inheritance, Drusilla. You came to sell our family's blood to Chicago to pay your debts."
Drusilla’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she lowered her head, weeping in bitter, exhausted defeat. "What are you going to do to me, Anselm? Are you going to shoot me right here? In front of your men?"
"No," Anselm said.
Drusilla looked up, a faint, desperate flicker of hope surfacing in her red-rimmed eyes. "You won't? We... we grew up in this house together, Anselm. Our father loved both of us—"
"My father is dead," Anselm interrupted, "and you are not getting off that easily."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"The Moretti syndicate sent twelve more men across the state line tonight. They have three supply warehouses along the Hudson River, and their main lieutenant is currently holed up at a safe house in Scarsdale waiting for your call to confirm my death."
Drusilla swallowed hard. "I... I don't know what you mean."
"You are going to pick up that radio," Anselm pointed to the black transceiver resting beside his water glass, "and you are going to tell Moretti’s lieutenant that the hit was successful. You will tell him that Anselm Penrose is dead, the girl is secured, and that he needs to bring the paperwork to the boathouse at Pier 9 to finalize the handover."
Drusilla shook her head frantically. "No! If I do that, Moretti will know I betrayed him! He’ll hunt me to the ends of the earth!"
May you like
Anselm picked up his shotgun, resting the cold steel barrel against the center of her forehead. The metal was still warm from the recent firefight.
"Drusilla," Anselm whispered, his voice as soft as velvet and as final as a guillotine. "If you refuse to pick up that radio, you won't live long enough to worry about Moretti."
