Chapter 9 - BLOOD ON THE WHITE ROSES
The rain had washed the courtyard, but it could not wash away the smell of copper and cordite.
Five black Mercedes sedans with tinted windows idled outside the ruins of the front gates.
Inside the Blackwood Manor, the servants had swept the broken glass into heaps against the walls.
The white candles were still burning, their wax dripping like frozen tears onto the flagstones.
In the center of the hall, Callum Voss sat on the bottom step of the staircase.
His left sleeve was soaked with blood.
A ricochet round had caught him during the defense of the balcony.
He hadn't asked for a doctor.
He sat with his head bowed, his hands resting limply between his knees.
Beckett stood five feet away, his arms crossed over his massive chest, watching his father with cold, unblinking eyes.
Rosalind walked past Callum.
Her velvet gown rustled softly.
She did not look down at him.
She stopped in front of Sloane Mercer, who had been untied from the chair and forced onto her knees on the cold stone.
The tape had been ripped from Sloane's mouth.
Her lower lip was split and bleeding.
Her mascara ran down her cheeks in jagged black streaks.
"Please," Sloane whispered, her voice barely audible.
Her arrogance was gone.
Her vanity was gone.
The woman who had strutted into the Drake Hotel in a scarlet dress to slap the matriarch of Chicago was gone.
Now, there was only a terrified girl facing the consequences of a world she did not understand.
"Please, Mrs. Voss," Sloane sobbed, clasping her trembling hands together.
"I didn't know Dante was going to blow up the house."
"He told me he just wanted to arrest Callum."
"He told me I would be safe."
Rosalind looked down at her with neither pity nor malice.
"You knew my brother was murdered," Rosalind said.
"You held the evidence for fourteen months."
"You used his death as leverage to buy designer bags and sleep with my husband."
"I was afraid!" Sloane wept, bowing her head until her forehead touched Rosalind's shoes.
"My father told me before he died that Callum would kill me if I didn't have protection!"
"Your father was a murderer," Rosalind replied evenly.
"And you are his daughter."
Gideon entered the hall, hanging up his satellite phone.
He looked around the room, taking in the blood, the smoke, and the kneeling mistress.
"The Commission has convened at St. Michael's Cathedral," Gideon reported.
"All seven families are present."
"The Arbiter has arrived from New York."
Callum lifted his head slowly.
"The Arbiter?" Callum rasped, his voice hoarse.
"Old Man Valenti came out of retirement for this?"
"He did," Gideon answered without looking at his father.
"Because Dante Sterling broke the sacred truce."
"He attacked a family seat during a declared anniversary week."
"And because you, Father, lost control of your house."
Callum winced as though he had been struck with a whip.
He pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the oak banister.
"I will go," Callum said.
"I will take the blame."
"I will tell Valenti that I allowed the breach."
"You will go," Rosalind said, turning to face him.
"But not as the boss."
She walked to the weapons rack and retrieved a small velvet box that Piers had brought from the vault.
She opened it.
Inside lay the Blackwood signet ring.
A heavy gold band bearing the crest of a perched hawk clutching three arrows.
The ring her grandfather had worn when he divided the Chicago railyards in 1948.
The ring Callum had never been allowed to wear.
Rosalind turned to Gideon.
"Give me your hand, Gideon."
Gideon stepped forward, his eyes locked with his mother's.
He extended his right hand.
Rosalind slid the heavy gold ring onto his ring finger.
It fit perfectly.
"You are the head of the house of Voss-Blackwood," Rosalind said.
Her voice carried the weight of fifty years of underworld history.
"You will speak before the Commission."
"You will deliver the sentence."
Gideon bowed his head once.
"Yes, Mother."
Callum watched the ring slide onto his son's finger.
He saw the crown he had worn for thirty years pass into the hands of the boy he had trained.
No shots fired.
No war fought between them.
Just a quiet, inevitable transfer of power, orchestrated entirely by the woman he had betrayed.
"And what about me?" Callum asked, his voice shaking.
Rosalind looked at him one last time before turning toward the door.
May you like
"You will walk behind your sons," she said.
"And you will keep your mouth shut."
