Chapter 3
Marcus pressed his thumb against his collar mic. "Seal the perimeter. Main doors and service exits. Anyone touches a handle, break their wrists."
A collective gasp rippled through the guests. A tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke tuxedo stepped out from the inner circle—Julian Vance, Benedetta’s older brother and the chief operating officer of the Vance Logistics Group.
"Tavish, this is outrageous!" Julian barked, marching forward with his hands raised in aristocratic indignation. "You struck my sister in front of the entire city council! You can't turn a private family misunderstanding into a hostage situation!"
Tavish turned his head slowly. "A private misunderstanding, Julian?"
"She had an emotional outburst!" Julian argued, sweat breaking out along his hairline despite the chilled room. "She lost her temper over a child’s toy! You're making a public spectacle out of nothing! Let the guests leave, and we can discuss this in the boardroom tomorrow morning!"
"Sylvie," Tavish murmured without taking his eyes off Julian. "Did you ever show this key to your aunt?"
The three-year-old peeked out from behind Tavish’s leg, her little fingers clutching the edge of his trousers. "Aunt Benedetta took me into Grandma’s room on Tuesday, Daddy. She had a crowbar. She couldn't open the closet with the metal lock. She yelled at me until I cried."
Julian’s face drained of every ounce of its rosy color.
Benedetta scrambled to her feet, her gown dragging over the spilled napkins. "She's lying! She's three years old, Tavish! She doesn't know what she's saying! Clara filled her head with paranoid delusions before she abandoned you!"
"Clara never told a lie in her life," Tavish said, his tone chillingly level. "Which is why you had to get rid of her."
"That is an actionable accusation!" Julian shouted, taking another step forward. "My family has partnered with the Rookfield empire for thirty years! Our father built the southern shipping terminals with your father! We wouldn't touch Clara!"
"Your shipping terminals are eighty million dollars underwater, Julian," Tavish said.
The silence in the room grew instantly heavier. The city councilmen exchanged sharp, panicked looks.
"What did you say?" Julian stammered.
"I read the audit from Zurich this morning," Tavish continued, his voice ringing off the gilded cornices. "Your family took out high-interest bridge loans from the Corsican syndicate in Marseilles. You used the Rookfield port concessions as collateral without my signature. You needed this wedding tonight so the joint accounts would cover your margin call on Monday."
"Tavish, that's business!" Benedetta pleaded, lunging forward and reaching for his sleeve. "It’s just finance! We were protecting both our names! If our company goes down, the federal prosecutors look into your docks, too! We did it for us!"
"There is that word again," Tavish said, stepping back so her hand grabbed empty air. "Us."
He reached down, scooped Sylvie into his left arm, and settled her against his chest. The little girl rested her head on his shoulder, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes watching her father with complete, unshakeable trust.
"Marcus," Tavish commanded.
"Sir."
"Take Mr. Vance and Miss Vance to the penthouse suite on the twentieth floor," Tavish said. "Search them. Take their phones, their jewelry, and their shoes. If either of them attempts to speak to a guest, put a bullet through their knee."
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"Tavish!" Benedetta shrieked as two guards clamped onto her shoulders. "You can't do this! You don't know what's in that room! If you open that closet, you destroy everything your father built!"
Tavish turned his back on her screams. "I am going to my mother’s house," he said. "Let us see what my father was hiding."
