Chapter 3 - THE RECKONING IN THE STUDY
The private study on the fourth floor smelled of old leather, cigar smoke, and expensive bourbon.
It was a room where men were broken without ever being struck.
Kate sat on the edge of a velvet armchair.
Her broken arm was immobilized in a temporary splint crafted by Dr. Vance, the estate’s grim-faced physician.
She kept her good hand wrapped tightly around a mug of hot tea she couldn't drink.
Across the room, Damon Blackwell stood by the mahogany desk.
He was pouring amber liquid into a heavy crystal tumbler.
The heavy oak doors opened.
Marcus pushed Preston Caldwell into the room.
Preston stumbled forward, his tuxedo jacket slightly wrinkled, his face flushed with wine and arrogance.
"What is the meaning of this?" Preston snapped, straightening his lapel.
"My father is downstairs talking to the district attorney. If he finds out you dragged me up here—"
Preston stopped talking.
He saw Kate sitting in the corner.
Color drained from his face as fast as ink dropped in water.
"Ah," Damon said softly, turning around with the glass in his hand.
"The senator's son."
"Damon," Preston stammered, forcing a shaky laugh.
"What's all this about? It's just a misunderstanding. The little maid here—she dropped a tray, she got hysterical—"
Damon took one slow step forward.
"She didn't drop a tray, Preston."
"Now wait a minute. You're going to take the word of a hired girl over—"
Damon didn't raise his voice.
He didn't yell.
He simply set his glass down on the desk with a sharp, echoing clack.
"Marcus."
Before Preston could turn, Marcus was behind him.
An iron forearm hooked around Preston’s throat, yanking him backward.
A choked gasp ripped from Preston's chest.
He hit his knees hard against the Persian rug.
"You broke her arm," Damon said, walking closer until he towered over the kneeling man.
"I didn't mean to! She fought me! She was screaming—"
"She was screaming because you put your hands where they didn't belong."
Damon crouched down.
Eye to eye with the terrified young man.
"My house has rules, Preston."
"My father will ruin you!" Preston choked out, spittle flying from his lips.
"He will raid this estate! The FBI will be here by morning!"
Damon tilted his head.
"Your father is currently busy talking about tax reform with three judges who owe me favors."
He reached out.
His large, warm fingers wrapped gently around Preston’s right wrist.
The exact wrist that had grabbed Kate.
"Please," Preston whimpered, tears springing to his eyes.
"Please, Mr. Blackwell. My dad will pay. Anything you want. Money. Real estate. Just don't—"
"I don't want your father's money, Preston."
Damon’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper.
"I want equity."
Crack.
The sound in the quiet study was sickeningly loud.
Preston let out a high-pitched, animal shriek that cut off instantly as Marcus tightened his hold.
Preston slumped forward on the rug, clutching his shattered wrist, sobbing into the wool.
Kate sat frozen in her chair, her breath caught in her throat.
She had never seen anything so brutal, and yet so controlled.
Damon stood up, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his knee.
He looked at Marcus.
"Take him to the basement holding cell."
"And the others?" Marcus asked, his voice completely flat.
"All of them," Damon replied coldly.
"Every last man who helped cover up his little habits in my city."
Marcus nodded once and hauled the weeping senator's son up by his collar, dragging him out of the room.
The heavy door clicked shut.
Silence returned to the study.
Damon turned back to Kate.
He looked at her with an expression that defied description.
It wasn't pity.
It was possession.
"Drink your tea, Kate," he said gently.
May you like
"The night is still young."
THE END OF CHAPTER 3
