Chapter 4 - The Sealed Gates of Long IslandBy two in the morning, the forty syndicate commanders had been dismissed under armed escort, sent back to their private hotels under strict non-disclosure orders while Cassian’s private fleet mobilized across the Sound.
The grand ballroom was dark, the chandeliers extinguished, leaving only the security lights flickering along the covered colonnades.
I sat in the master library on the second floor, wrapped in a heavy cashmere blanket that Mrs. Gable, the elderly head housekeeper, had draped over my shoulders.
On the low cherrywood table sat a fresh mug of hot chamomile tea and the walnut music box, its silver nightingale gleaming softly in the amber firelight.
Albert Vance sat in a deep leather wingback chair beside the brick hearth, his brass watchmaker’s file resting on his knee, sipping warm broth from a china bowl.
The double mahogany doors opened, and Cassian walked in.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, wearing an unbuttoned white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his corded forearms. In his hand, he carried an antique leather portfolio stamped with the seal of the New York State Surrogate’s Court.
He sat down on the leather sofa beside me, placing the portfolio on the table.
“How is your mother resting tonight, Nora?” he asked softly, his deep baritone stripping away the terrifying armor of the mob sovereign.
“The medical transport arrived at St. Jude’s forty minutes ago, Mr. Vance,” I answered, my fingers clutching the warm mug. “The head physician called my cell phone to tell me she was comfortably settled in the Manhattan pavilion.”
“Stop calling me Mr. Vance,” Cassian said gently, turning to look into my eyes. “Call me Cassian. In this room, there are no bosses and no maids.”
I looked down at the carpet, the sheer magnitude of the night’s events still making my head spin.
“It feels impossible,” I whispered. “Six hours ago, I was carrying empty carafes through the pantry, terrified that one wrong glance from Lorelei would leave my mother on the street. And now... you’re telling me that Dimitri Bellini and Charles Sterling are being indicted by your soldiers.”
“They aren't just being indicted, Nora,” Cassian said firmly, opening the leather portfolio.
Inside lay an original, handwritten last will and testament, certified by Donna Elena Vance forty-eight hours before her yacht departed Montauk in 2004.
“My mother knew Dimitri had allied with the Sterling family,” Cassian continued, his voice thick with a raw, unhealed grief. “She knew that if she died, my father would be blinded by rage and Dimitri would maneuver him into an alliance with Charles Sterling. That was why she left the music box with Albert.”
He reached out, his thumb gently touching the silver feathers of the nightingale.
“She designed the chime so that only a master jeweler could open the secret catch. She told Albert to bring it to me only when I stood before an altar, because she knew that a man blinded by corporate power would only listen when the vows were about to be spoken.”
Albert smiled softly from the armchair, his eyes shining in the firelight.
“Elena was the brilliant one, Cassian,” the old jeweler whispered. “She drew the blueprints on my workbench in upstate New York. She said, ‘Albert, my son has his father’s dark temper, but he has my heart. If he hears the nightingale sing, he will remember who he is.’”
Cassian looked at the old craftsman, bowing his head with deep, profound reverence.
“You kept her voice alive for twenty years, Uncle Albert. When everyone else took Charles Sterling’s consulting checks, you stayed in that small workshop in the Adirondacks.”
“An honest jeweler does not sell a mother’s lullaby for blood money, my boy,” Albert replied simply.
Cassian stood up, walking over to the desk. He dialed an internal extension on his private phone.
“Victor.”
A sharp voice answered: “Yes, Don Cassian.”
“Is Charles Sterling at the Drake Hotel in Manhattan?”
“Our surveillance teams have him boxed in the penthouse suite, boss. He has six armed guards on the elevator bank.”
Cassian’s eyes darkened into slate.
“Do not breach until I arrive. Bring the convoy to the front portico in ten minutes.”
He hung up the phone, turning back to me.
He walked across the Persian rug until he was standing directly in front of the sofa.
He reached out, his large, scarred hand gently closing over mine where it rested on the cashmere throw.
“Come with me, Nora.”
May you like
I blinked in surprise. “To Manhattan, sir?”
“You were the only person in this house who refused to lock that music box in the dark,” Cassian said, his gray eyes searching mine with an intensity that took my breath away. “You’re going to watch me close the ledger on the men who tried to silence it.”
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