Chapter 9 - The Family Crest
Vincent took the heavy silver cufflink from Addy’s small hand, feeling its cold, expensive weight against his palm.
Julian Moreau hadn't sent an anonymous enforcer to do his dirty work. He had sent his own younger brother, Julien Jr., who wore bespoke French cuffs and thought he was clever enough to play butcher in the bayou.
"Marcus," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register that made the security guards stiffen to attention.
"Sir?" Marcus barked, still gripping Toby tightly by the collar.
"Lock Toby in the root cellar. Give him some coffee, make sure he doesn't choke on his own tongue, and leave him there until I decide whether he’s a traitor or just an idiot." Vincent tossed the silver cufflink onto the desk, right beside the fax paper from the state police. "Then I want you to wake Camille. Tell her to pack a small bag for Addy."
Marcus blinked, his hard face registering genuine shock. "Pack a bag? Vincent, where are we sending her? If Moreau knows she’s the one who ID'd his enforcer..."
"We aren't sending her away," Vincent interrupted, his eyes flashing with dark resolve. "We’re moving her to the high suite on the fourth floor—the one with the reinforced steel shutters and the private elevator. And you are going to post a round-the-clock armed detail outside her door."
"And Moreau?" Marcus asked, his lips curving into a grim, hard line.
Vincent picked up the cufflink, slipping it into his vest pocket.
"Moreau thinks he’s playing a game of chess with a wounded animal," Vincent said softly. "Tomorrow morning, we’re going to show him what happens when the animal stops bleeding and starts hunting."
An hour later, the house had settled back into an artificial, tense quiet. Toby was locked away in the root cellar. Addy had been tucked safely into the fourth-floor secure suite, her stuffed alligator clutched tightly in her arms, her dark eyes drifting shut only after she was certain her uncle was no longer bleeding.
Vincent stood on the fourth-floor balcony, looking out over the dark expanse of the Louisiana sugar lands toward the distant lights of Moreau’s estate across the river.
The night wind carried the sweet, heavy scent of decaying swamp water and falling magnolia blossoms.
Footsteps approached softly from behind.
"She's asleep," Camille Budro said quietly, stepping out onto the balcony. She wore a dark shawl over her shoulders, her face pale in the moonlight. "She didn't cry once, Mr. Castellano. Not when the guards burst in, not when you sent her up here."
"She’s not made of glass, Camille," Vincent said without turning around. "She’s a Castellano—even if she doesn't carry the name on paper."
Camille stopped beside him, resting her hands on the stone balustrade. "You’re going to tear down Moreau’s empire over this, aren't you?"
"He bled on my floor," Vincent said simply. "And he threatened my blood. Empire is just the collateral damage."
Camille looked at him for a long moment, the wind blowing a stray lock of dark hair across her cheek. "Be careful, Vincent. Julian Moreau is a snake, but his uncle—the old judge in Baton Rouge—still controls half the federal magistrates in this district."
Vincent turned his head, looking at his head housekeeper with a sharp, assessing gaze. There were things Camille knew—things about the old days, about the families, about the bloodlines that tied the Castellanos and Moreaus together—that she had kept hidden behind her immaculate aprons for six years.
May you like
Before Vincent could ask her what else she was hiding, the secure satellite phone resting on the library desk downstairs began to ring, piercing the night with a shrill, digital shriek that echoed up through the open courtyard.
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