Chapter 8
Within twenty minutes, the grand ballroom of the St. Jude Crescent Club had become the stage of a surreal, terrifying theater.
The city’s wealthiest power brokers—judges, bank presidents, and corporate chairmen—stood pressed against the perimeter walls in rigid, sweating silence, forbidden to leave, forbidden to sit, their flutes of champagne replaced by cold terror. At the center of the hall, seated at the long linen tables under the chandeliers, were the club’s scullery workers, line cooks, and their families. Hot beef stew, roasted game birds, and tiers of fresh cream pastries were served to them by Alaric’s own personal bodyguards.
In the center of the head table sat Nerys. Her cold foot was now wrapped in a thick wool scarf provided by Thomas, and she was contentedly dipping a fresh strawberry into powdered sugar, completely oblivious to the empire hanging in the balance around her.
Near the buffet stanchion, Winifred sat slumped in an armchair, her head in her hands, her ivory suit ruined, surrounded by three of Marco’s men.
Suddenly, the low screech of heavy tires tearing across the exterior gravel driveway echoed through the high glass windows of the club.
Marco moved to the bay window, his eyes narrowing as he parted the heavy velvet drape. "Don Alaric. Two black suburbans just breached the outer gate. Heavy tint. New Jersey plates."
Alaric did not flinch. He remained standing beside Nerys’s chair, his signet ring resting on the polished mahogany. "Corvo’s men?"
"Looks like it," Marco murmured, unbuttoning his overcoat and drawing a suppressed automatic pistol from his shoulder holster. "Winifred must have sent a distress signal from her personal watch before you took her keys."
Winifred lifted her head from her hands, a jagged, desperate laugh tearing from her throat. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face smeared with mascara, but the venom had returned to her voice.
"You're too late, Uncle!" she hissed, spitting blood onto the rug. "You think you can rule this city from Europe? The Corvo family bought the harbor terminals three weeks ago! Those trucks outside are carrying eight men with automatic rifles! If you don't let me walk out of this club right now, they’ll turn this ballroom into a slaughterhouse!"
The guests along the walls panicked. Several women began to weep, and two bank directors threw themselves under the linen tables, clawing at each other in terror.
Alaric didn't even look toward the windows. He reached down, took a clean napkin from the table, and gently wiped a speck of sugar from Nerys’s chin.
"Eat your berry, little bird," he whispered softly to the girl.
Then he turned to Marco.
"How many men did we leave at the gatehouse?" Alaric asked.
Marco checked his watch. "Four, sir. With the twelve-gauge autoloaders and the thermal scopes."
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A sudden, deafening crescendo of gunfire erupted from the driveway outside—not the staccato rattle of assault rifles, but the rhythmic, thunderous boom-boom-boom of heavy tactical shotguns echoing off the stone facade. Glass shattered in the outer courtyard, followed by the screech of metal folding upon metal as an engine block was blown to pieces.
Ten seconds later, the gunfire stopped.
