Chapter 6
The safe house in Scarsdale had been silent for two hours when the encrypted radio finally crackled with static.
Inside the dimly lit living room, three men in expensive tracksuits sat around a table covered in satellite maps and half-eaten takeout containers. The leader, Anthony "The Wrench" Moretti, grabbed the radio and keyed the mic.
"Report," Moretti barked.
Drusilla’s voice came through the speaker, ragged, breathless, and convincingly hysterical. "Anthony... it’s done. Oh God, there was so much blood... Anselm took three rounds to the chest in the hallway. The security detail folded once he went down."
Moretti grinned, exchanging a victorious look with his capos. "And the kid?"
"She’s locked in the nursery," Drusilla sobbed into the receiver. "My men are holding the perimeter, but the city police are going to get calls about the noise soon! You need to get down to Pier 9 right now! The dockmaster has the port transfer deeds in the safe! If we don't stamp them before the commission hears about Anselm’s death, the elders will freeze the accounts!"
Moretti leaned back, chuckling deep in his throat. "Good girl, Drusilla. You finally grew a spine. We’re moving to Pier 9 now. Don't touch a damn thing until I get there."
He dropped the radio on the table and stood up, pulling a heavy trench coat over his broad shoulders. "Get the cars. Call the boss in Chicago and tell him the eastern seaboard is ours."
Meanwhile, back at the Penrose estate, Anselm took the radio from Drusilla’s shaking hands.
"You performed well," Anselm noted, turning to Cassian. "Lock her in the wine cellar. Post two guards outside the door. If she makes a sound, gag her."
Drusilla didn't fight as the guards pulled her away. Her eyes were hollow, her spirit broken by the sheer magnitude of the trap she had just helped spring.
Anselm walked quickly up the grand stairs to the second floor. He pushed open the nursery door, stepping softly into the warm, quiet room.
Mrs. Gable was still awake, rocking gently in the corner with the Colt across her apron. On the bed, Merrilee was awake now, sitting cross-legged with her blanket pulled up to her chin, her eyes wide in the dim lamplight.
"Daddy," she whispered as he entered. "The loud noises stopped."
Anselm knelt beside the bed, his demeanor instantly transforming from a ruthless warlord to a devoted protector. He reached out and smoothed her curls, smiling gently. "The storm passed, Merrilee. Did you stay brave?"
Merrilee reached under her pillow and pulled out the gold serpent brooch, holding it out proudly. "I kept it safe under my head. It didn't get lost."
Anselm’s heart tightened with a fierce, burning tenderness. He took her small hand and kissed the knuckles where Drusilla had struck her earlier that evening.
"You are the bravest girl in this family," Anselm told her. "I have to go down to the docks for a little while to finish cleaning up the mess. But when I come back, we’re going to have pancakes with strawberry syrup for breakfast. How does that sound?"
"With whipped cream?" she asked, her hazel eyes lighting up with innocent hope.
"As much whipped cream as you want," Anselm promised.
He kissed her forehead, stood, and turned to Mrs. Gable. "The house is secure now, but keep the iron shutters locked until my car pulls back through the gates."
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"Give them hell, Anselm," the old woman whispered.
Anselm walked out of the room, descending to the underground garage where three armored black Suburbans were idling, their headlights cutting through the subterranean fog.
