Chapter 10
The first grey light of dawn began to seep through the tall arched windows of the ballroom, turning the crystal chandeliers into cold, pale prisms.
The guests had been dismissed an hour before, escorted to their vehicles under armed guard after signing confessions, asset transfers, and restitution agreements that stripped fifteen million dollars from their private portfolios to fund the workers' pension trusts. Donald Beaumont had left on foot, his head bowed, his reputation incinerated.
Winifred had been driven away in an unmarked black sedan, bound for the freezing exile of the northern woods.
In the quiet, cavernous hall, the kitchen staff was packing away the remains of the feast. Thomas Vance stood near the buffet, his bruised ribs bandaged, his arms wrapped around his two sons as they ate warm rolls straight from the restored ovens.
Alaric sat on the low padded bench near the entrance, where the evening had begun.
Beside him sat Nerys.
Marco had returned twenty minutes earlier with a small, velvet-lined box from the city’s finest private boutique. Inside was a brand-new pair of handcrafted leather flats, lined in soft rabbit fur, with silver buckles on the straps.
Alaric bent down, his massive, scarred hands moving with infinitely delicate care. He lifted Nerys’s bare right foot, sliding it gently into the new shoe, fastening the silver buckle with his thumb.
Nerys wiggled her toes against the soft fur, a bright, rosy smile illuminating her small face once more. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, warm almond croissant that her father had just baked for her, and pressed it into Alaric’s palm.
"This one didn't touch anything," Nerys whispered happily.
Alaric looked at the pastry in his hand. A faint, rare smile touched the corner of his scarred lips. He broke off a small piece, placed it in his mouth, and nodded with quiet approval.
"It is the best bread in the city, little bird," he murmured softly.
Marco walked up to the bench, his leather trench coat rustling in the quiet air. He held a secure satellite phone in his gloved hand, along with a cracked wax-sealed envelope that had been recovered from the briefcase of the Corvo driver in the courtyard.
Alaric took the envelope. He used his pocket knife to slit the top, unfolding the thick parchment inside.
The letter was brief, written in sharp, aristocratic fountain-pen script that Alaric recognized instantly. It was a handwriting he had not seen in seven years—not since his younger brother, Gabriel Marwood, was reported dead in an offshore yacht explosion in the North Sea.
The text was simple:
The girl was only the beginning, brother. The docks belong to the new century. Welcome home to your graveyard.
Alaric stared at the signature for a long, silent moment. The cold morning wind whistled against the glass panes of the club.
He folded the letter, placed it inside his suit coat, and stood up to his full, towering height. His dark eyes turned toward the vast, waking city outside the window, where the first cargo ships of the morning were cutting through the harbor mist.
"Marco," Alaric said, his voice flat, steady, and carrying the promise of total war.
May you like
"Yes, Don Alaric?"
"Call the captains from Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago," Alaric commanded, adjusting the heavy signet ring on his finger. "Tell them my brother is alive. And tell them to bring their rifles."
