Chapter 6
"Thorne," Lachlan said.
He didn't shout. He didn't even turn his head from the staircase.
Thorne didn't draw a gun. He took two long, heavy strides, intercepted Ottoline three feet from the glass doors, and clamped his massive forearm across her chest, slamming her back against the white marble wall.
Ottoline shrieked, clawing at his suit lapels with her polished red nails, kicking her bare feet against the wainscoting. "Let me go! You don't know who’s outside! The Castiglione people are already at the marina! If I don't check in by four o'clock, they burn the docks! They burn everything you own, Lachlan!"
Lachlan slowly stood up from his knee beside Nola.
He reached into his trousers pocket, pulled out a clean, starch-white linen handkerchief, and carefully wrapped the tiny recording disc inside it, tucking it into his inner breast pocket right over his heart.
Then he walked over to his son.
Ashcombe was still curled on the floor, his forehead pressed against the Persian rug, his shoulders shaking with violent, pathetic sobs. He looked up as the shadow of his father’s overcoat fell across him.
"Dad..." Ashcombe wept, his voice muffled by the carpet. "She had me trapped! The Castiglione crew had my debt notes! They said they would kill me, Dad! They were going to put me in a cement barrel and drop me off the Ambrose Light! I had no choice! I tried to stop her! I told her to reduce the dose, but she said Mother was going to ruin us all!"
Lachlan looked down at his only son.
In his gray eyes, there was no anger. There was no fury, no righteous indignation. There was only a vast, infinite emptiness—the cold, dead landscape of a man who had survived wars, betrayals, and executions, only to find that the rot had bloomed inside his own bloodline.
"You had a choice, Ashcombe," Lachlan said. "You could have come to me."
"You would have killed me!" Ashcombe screamed, lifting his battered, tear-streaked face. "You would have stripped my name! You would have thrown me into the gutter! You always loved her more than me! You always loved Clara’s rules more than your own flesh and blood!"
"I would have broken your legs," Lachlan corrected, his tone chillingly precise. "I would have put you in a room for six months until the debt was cleared. But you would have remained my son. And your mother would be sitting on that bench right now, holding her granddaughter."
Lachlan reached down. His fingers caught Ashcombe by the silk tie, hauling the thirty-eight-year-old man to his feet with terrifying, effortless strength. He dragged Ashcombe across the marble until he was standing face-to-face with Ottoline, who was still pinned against the wall by Thorne’s forearm.
"Look at her," Lachlan commanded.
Ashcombe averted his eyes, weeping, his breath hitching.
"I said look at her!" Lachlan’s voice cracked like a whip through the empty hall.
Ashcombe forced his head up.
Ottoline glared back at him, her face twisted in pure, unadulterated disgust. "You pathetic little coward," she spat at her husband. "You couldn't even stand up to an old man on his birthday. You signed the death certificate with your own pen, Ashcombe. You took the thirty pieces of silver, and now you're crying like a whipped dog."
"Thorne," Lachlan said.
"Sir."
"Take them down to the wine cellar. Put them in the cold vault behind the tasting room. Take their phones, their watches, and their rings."
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"No! Lachlan, please!" Ashcombe shrieked, thrashing against his father's grip as two more armed guards entered through the side corridor. "Don't put me down there! Dad! I'm an Ashcombe! I have your blood!"
"My blood," Lachlan said, releasing his tie so violently that Ashcombe stumbled into the guards' arms, "does not murder women in their beds."
