Chapter 3 - The Wolf at the Feast
The library of Ashworth Manor was built like a cathedral for sinners. Two stories of dark mahogany bookshelves, lined with thousands of leather-bound volumes that no one in my family had ever read, lit by a massive iron chandelier that hung from heavy chains like a chandelier in a medieval dungeon.
Victor Ashworth stood by the grand stone fireplace, pouring two fingers of my thirty-year-old single malt scotch into a crystal tumbler.
He looked every inch the Ashworth prince—tall, lean, with silvering hair swept back smoothly from his forehead, wearing a charcoal-grey tailored suit that hid the shoulder holster he always carried. He looked calm. He looked like a man who hadn't just ordered twelve armed mercenaries to surround my front courtyard.
"Julian," Victor said, turning around with a smooth, practiced smile as I entered the room alone. "You look terrible. Still nursing those cracked ribs from the car incident?"
"The ribs are fine, Victor," I said, walking to the leather armchair opposite him and sitting down slowly, resting my hands flat on the armrests. "What isn't fine is twelve armed men standing on my lawn at two in the morning during a gale-force storm."
Victor chuckled, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. "A precaution, cousin. Nothing more. The streets are dangerous right now. As you well know."
"You said you had information about the bomb," I said, ignoring his pleasantries.
Victor's smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of grave, theatrical concern. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a thick manila folder, and tossed it onto the glass coffee table between us.
"Our intelligence guys intercepted a series of encrypted radio transmissions coming from the North End," Victor said, leaning back against the mantle. "The bomb wasn't planted by the Maroni syndicate, Julian. It was an inside job. Funded by an offshore account registered under the name of a dead woman."
I looked down at the folder. "What dead woman?"
"Rosalind Marsh," Victor said, his eyes tracking my face for the slightest twitch of a muscle. "The clerk who disappeared twelve years ago with three million of your father's dirty cash."
I didn't blink. I didn't reach for the folder. "Rosalind Marsh has been dead for a decade, Victor. You told me yourself you tracked her to a river outside Montreal in 2014."
"I lied," Victor said smoothly, taking another sip of his drink. "Or rather... I was mistaken. It seems she's been hiding right here in Boston, living like a rat in South End tenements, using your father's old slush funds to hire local muscle."
"And why would a former hospital clerk want to blow up my Bentley twelve years later?" I asked, leaning back in my chair.
"Because she didn't want to blow up your Bentley," Victor said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as he took two steps toward me. "She wanted to blow up mine. She thought I was in the car, Julian. She blames me for her brother's death during the '08 dock riots."
It was a brilliant lie. Layered, plausible, built on real historical facts that any council member would accept without question. It framed Rosalind as an unstable lone threat while positioning Victor as the intended victim, neatly explaining away why his men were mobilized across the city.
"Fascinating," I said softly. "And I suppose you have proof of this?"
"I have better than proof," Victor said, a dark, predatory gleam appearing in his eyes. "I have a trace on her location. One of my informants saw a little girl matching her daughter's description entering an abandoned apartment building on 4th Street two hours ago."
He reached into his jacket again, pulling out a sleek black satellite phone.
"I have six men standing outside that door right now, Julian," Victor said, a triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his thin lips. "I give the order, and we wipe this old stain off our family's boots once and for all."
I sat in silence for five full seconds, listening to the rain battering the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me.
Then, slowly, I began to laugh.
It wasn't a hearty, joyous sound. It was a cold, dry, terrible laugh that made the smile freeze on Victor's face.
"What's so funny?" Victor asked, his hand tightening around his satellite phone.
"What's funny, cousin," I said, standing up from the armchair with smooth, effortless grace—my limp completely gone—"is that your informants are as incompetent as your bomb-makers."
Victor's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"The apartment on 4th Street has been empty for three hours," I said, taking a step toward him. "Rosalind Marsh isn't in South Boston, Victor. She's upstairs in my guest suite, drinking hot tea under the care of Dr. Thorne."
Victor's face didn't just turn pale; it turned the color of damp ash. His hand twitched toward his shoulder holster.
"Don't," I warned, my voice dropping into a register that made the crystal glasses on the side table vibrate. "Desmond has three sniper rifles trained on your head through the rain right now. You pull that weapon, and your brain matter will be decorating my father's portrait before your body hits the rug."
Victor froze, his hand hovering two inches inside his jacket.
"You... you brought her here?" Victor stammered, his polished arrogance cracking like thin ice under a heavy boot. "Julian, you don't know what she is! She's a poison! She's—"
"She's my father's executor," I interrupted, stepping directly into his personal space until I could smell the expensive tobacco and cheap fear on his breath. "And the little girl she brought with her isn't her daughter. She's my sister, Victor. My father's legitimate heir."
Victor swallowed hard, a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple and dripping onto his pristine collar. "Your father was insane at the end, Julian! He was throwing money at ghosts! He wanted to tear down everything we built!"
"He wanted to protect his blood from a parasite," I said, reaching out with my left hand and gently plucking the satellite phone from his trembling fingers. "You thought if you killed me with that car bomb, you could claim the chairman's seat before the trust fund triggered on Ivy's seventh birthday. But you missed me, Victor. And now... the trust has already opened."
I flipped the satellite phone open, pressed a single button, and brought it to my ear.
"Desmond," I said into the line. "Lock the gates. Disarm Victor's men outside. Anyone who resists gets six inches of steel in the liver."
"Understood, boss," Desmond's voice crackled back through the small speaker. "Outside perimeter is secure. Victor's lead guy tried to raise his rifle—he's sleeping in the hydrangeas now."
Victor's eyes darted frantically around the room, looking for an escape route that didn't exist. "Julian... we're family. We can work this out. I'll give you sixty percent of the shipping docks! I'll hand over the Canadian smuggling routes!"
"You tried to murder an eight-year-old girl with double pneumonia," I said, my hand wrapping around his throat with the crushing force of a hydraulic press, forcing him back against the stone hearth. "You don't have anything left to trade, Victor. Except information."
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"Information about what?!" Victor choked out, his eyes bulging as my grip tightened.
"About who else on the High Council helped you plant that bomb," I said, my face inches from his. "Because tomorrow morning, we're having a family dinner... and you're going to be the main course."
