Chapter 4
Winifred stood paralyzed against the edge of the low table, her chest heaving beneath her silk blouse. Her hand twitched instinctively toward the inside pocket of her blazer, where the master security key ring was clipped to the lining.
"Uncle," she stammered, her voice shaking violently as she attempted to summon a veneer of authority. "It's... it's just the storage cellar. Health and safety codes. We had health inspectors this morning, and the kitchen staff—"
"I did not ask for a report, Winifred," Alaric cut her off. His voice did not rise; it dropped into a terrifying, gravelly register that made the nearest bodyguard swallow hard. "I told you to open the door."
Before Winifred could move, two distinct, muffled thumps sounded from the other side of the heavy oak door.
Thud. Thud.
A collective shiver ran through the crowd of onlookers. The guests—commissioners, councilmen, shipping magnates who had courted Winifred’s favor all evening—began to exchange uneasy, horrified glances.
Alaric did not wait. He stepped forward, his leather shoes crushing a spilled bread roll into the carpet. He reached out with one massive hand, caught the collar of Winifred’s tailored jacket, and ripped the brass key ring cleanly from its inside clip. The silk lining tore with a sharp, dry rasp.
Alaric shoved the heavy master key into the brass deadbolt. He twisted it once. The lock gave a heavy, mechanical snap. He threw the steel chain aside and shoved the oak door inward.
A wall of frigid air rushed out into the warm, perfume-scented ballroom, carrying the stench of damp concrete, bleach, and unbaked flour.
The service room was not a pantry. It was a cold-storage cellar, illuminated only by a single flickering fluorescent bulb. The industrial cooling units along the ceiling were humming on full blast, frost coating the galvanized wire shelves.
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On the freezing concrete floor sat four children, none older than seven, huddled together under a single torn burlap sack. Their lips were blue, their fair skin shivering violently. Standing over them, his hands bound behind his back with plastic zip-ties, was Thomas Vance—the club’s master baker, a fifty-year-old veteran whose family had served the Marwood kitchens for three generations. Thomas's face was battered, an ugly purple bruise blooming across his left eye, his flour-dusted apron spattered with dark spots of dried blood.
"Mr. Marwood..." Thomas whispered through chattering teeth, looking up into the blinding ballroom light as if seeing an apparition. "She... she locked them in at ten this morning. When I tried to bring them bread, her guards took a pipe to my ribs."
