Chapter 6 - THE BLOOD TRIBUNAL
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed five in the afternoon.
The sedative had worn off, leaving my head heavy and my mouth dry as sand.
The pain in my ribs was a dull, tight ache beneath the fresh elastic bandages.
My left arm was encased in a sleek, black fiberglass cast that ran from my knuckles to my mid-forearm.
I pushed myself up from the four-poster bed.
The room was empty.
The fire in the stone hearth had burned down to glowing orange embers.
On the mahogany nightstand sat a tall glass of ice water, two pain tablets, and a clean, neatly folded set of clothes.
Not a cleaning smock.
A high-necked, charcoal cashmere sweater and dark wool trousers tailored to my exact measurements.
Beside the clothes lay a heavy gold necklace bearing the signet of the Valin family: a winged lion holding an iron sword.
The mark of royal protection.
I swallowed the tablets with two gulps of water, dressed slowly with my good right arm, and slipped the heavy gold chain over my head.
The cold metal rested against my collarbone like an anchor.
I walked to the bedroom door and turned the brass handle.
It wasn't locked.
Outside in the second-floor gallery, two guards in dark charcoal suits stood beside the balustrade.
When they saw me step onto the carpet, they immediately straightened their postures and bowed their heads.
"Mrs. Vance," the taller one said respectfully.
"Isa," I corrected, my voice raspy.
"Where is Rhett?"
"In the Grand Library on the ground floor, ma'am," the guard replied.
"The Council envoys arrived twenty minutes ago."
I didn't ask for permission.
I walked down the grand marble staircase, my leather slippers making no sound on the runner.
The house was not silent.
A low, vibrating hum of tension filled the air, like the atmosphere before a catastrophic thunderstorm.
Outside the tall leaded-glass windows, forty armed men were stationed along the perimeter walls, their rifles held at the low-ready position.
I reached the double mahogany doors of the Grand Library.
The heavy doors were cracked open two inches.
Voices drifted through the gap.
Deep.
Gravelly.
Men who had spent decades ordering executions over cigars and port wine.
"...the law is the law, Don Valin!" a voice boomed from inside.
Don Carmine.
The elder of the North Side families.
"A marriage contract signed before the High Council cannot be voided by a cousin's whim!"
"Julian Vance holds the deed to the girl."
"If you harbor another man's wife in this house, you violate the Treaty of 1994."
"The entire Commission will vote to strip your territory!"
I stepped closer to the crack, peeking through the gap.
The library was vast, two stories high, lined with thousands of leather-bound volumes and illuminated by a roaring fire.
Seated around a massive walnut table were six elderly men in dark bespoke suits.
The High Tribunal of Chicago.
Standing at the far end of the room, looking out the rain-streaked windows toward the lake, was Rhett.
He had showered and changed into an immaculate, three-piece black suit.
His dark hair was combed back with razor-like precision.
His left arm hung naturally at his side, the bullet wound completely concealed beneath the fine Italian wool.
He held a crystal tumbler of Scotch in his right hand.
He did not look at the elders.
"The Treaty of 1994," Rhett said softly, his voice cutting through the old man's bluster like a straight razor.
"Section Four, Paragraph Two."
"A marriage contract is binding only so long as the bride is maintained in a condition suitable to her rank."
Rhett turned slowly around.
His amber eyes swept across the six elders with the absolute indifference of a judge reviewing dead files.
"Julian Vance kept my cousin's daughter in a walk-up tenement on 24th Street."
"He broke her arm."
"He cracked her ribs."
"He left her unconscious on a linoleum floor while he drank in New York."
Rhett set his glass down on the walnut table with a sharp, echoing thump.
"Under the ancient laws of the Sicilian rite," Rhett declared,
"a battered bride may claim sanctuary under the roof of her bloodkin."
"She is not your bloodkin, Rhett!" another elder shouted.
"Her mother was a second cousin by adoption!"
"She is a Brooks!"
"She is my wife," a voice snarled from the library doors behind me.
I spun around.
Julian Vance stood in the foyer.
His camel-hair coat was gone, replaced by a dark tactical jacket.
His right arm was in a sling, his face covered in butterfly bandages and purple contusions from his arrest that morning.
Flanking him were four heavily armed private mercenaries wearing the blue badges of the Vance Harbor Security.
Julian’s eyes locked onto me.
He saw the charcoal cashmere sweater.
He saw the heavy gold Valin signet resting against my chest.
His lip curled into a vicious, rabid sneer.
"Look at you, Isa," Julian hissed, stepping toward me.
"Wearing his gold like a common whore."
Before Julian could take a third step, a heavy hand clamped onto his broken right shoulder from behind.
Julian screamed in agony, dropping to his knees on the marble floor.
Standing over him was Leo Vance, holding a nine-inch combat blade against Julian's carotid artery.
"One more step toward Mrs. Valin, cousin," Leo murmured into Julian's ear,
"and I carve your throat from ear to ear."
Rhett stepped out of the library into the foyer.
His eyes swept over Julian on the floor, then settled on me.
He took in the cashmere sweater, the dark trousers, and the gold signet resting over my heart.
A look of profound, unshakeable pride flashed across his stone features.
He walked over to where I stood.
He didn't speak to Julian.
He reached out and took my uninjured right hand in his, raising my knuckles to his lips in front of the six elders of the High Commission.
"You're awake, Isa," Rhett murmured against my skin.
"I am," I said, my voice steady, clear, and ringing through the marble hall.
Rhett turned toward the six elders standing in the library doorway.
"You wanted a formal petition for divorce, gentlemen?" Rhett asked the Commission.
He drew a folded sheet of parchment from his breast pocket.
He tossed it onto the marble floor in front of Julian’s face.
"Sign the dissolution, Julian."
"Surrender the bearer bonds you stole from her father."
"And I will let you take a train to Florida with your life."
Julian spat blood onto the parchment, looking up at Rhett with pure, psychotic defiance.
"I won't sign shit, Rhett!" Julian shrieked.
"My father just took control of the South Side rail yards forty minutes ago!"
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"He has two hundred men staging at the 16th Street junction!"
"If you kill me, this entire city burns to the ground by midnight!"
