Chapter 7 - THE COUNCIL OF WOLVES
The solarium was a massive glass cathedral jutting out from the southern corner of the second floor.
Outside, rain drummed incessantly against the reinforced panes, blurring the manicured hedges and stone fountains of the estate’s lower terrace into gray watercolor.
Inside, the air was warm and heavy, fragrant with blooming jasmine and potted lemon trees.
Eleanor Russo sat at the head of a long glass dining table, dressed in a sharp navy wool suit with pearl buttons.
Her ivory-handled cane leaned against her chair, her manicured hands folded tightly over a thick leather binder.
To her left sat Vincent Russo.
He had discarded his overcoat, sitting in an immaculate tailored pinstripe suit, his fingers drumming an impatient, rhythmic tattoo against a crystal water glass.
Behind him stood a thin, balding man in rimless glasses clutching a leather briefcase—Julian Croft, Vincent’s personal estate attorney.
When Logan escorted Emily into the room, every conversation ceased instantly.
Emily kept her head down, her hands tucked into the pockets of an oversized cream cardigan Logan’s staff had provided.
Every instinct in her body screamed at her to turn around and run back to the ballistic bunker on the third floor.
The room felt like an open-air cage filled with wolves that hadn't eaten in weeks.
"Sit here, child," Eleanor said, gesturing toward the empty velvet chair to her immediate right.
Emily moved forward, her sneakers squeaking slightly against the wet marble near the entrance.
Logan did not sit.
He stepped behind Emily’s chair, resting both hands on the high wooden backrest, his tall, broad frame casting an imposing shadow over her shoulder.
His eyes never left Vincent’s face.
"Now that the maid of honor has arrived," Vincent drawled, his lips curling into an oily, condescending sneer, "perhaps we can conclude this circus."
"Open your mouth again in that tone, Vincent, and I will have Logan escort you to the gate on foot," Eleanor said, not even looking at him.
Her voice was quiet, crisp, and absolute.
Vincent’s jaw tightened, but he leaned back, gesturing to his lawyer.
Croft cleared his throat, opening his briefcase and pulling out three copies of a legal petition stamped with the seal of the Superior Probate Court.
"Mrs. Russo," Croft began nervously, adjusting his spectacles.
"Under Section 402 of the State Probate Code, any posthumous claim of paternity against a designated heir must be supported by clear and convincing evidence before any distribution of trust assets can be delayed."
Croft pushed the documents across the glass table toward Eleanor.
"Daniel's will explicitly names his uncle, Vincent Russo, as the primary beneficiary of his twenty-five-percent equity share in the North American Logistics Group, should Daniel pass without lawful issue."
"Lawful issue," Eleanor repeated, her eyes cold as winter ice.
"That means a child, Julian. In plain English, a son or a daughter."
"A child born of a lawful marriage, Mrs. Russo," Croft corrected smoothly, gaining confidence.
"Miss Carter was never married to Daniel. She is not mentioned in any deed, any insurance policy, or any personal correspondence found in Daniel's downtown apartment."
Croft turned his gaze toward Emily, his eyes cold and transactional.
"For all legal intents and purposes, Miss Carter is an undocumented domestic worker who had a casual liaison with a wealthy man under an alias."
"Shut your mouth," Logan growled from behind Emily’s chair.
The sound was so low, so full of unadulterated violence that Croft flinched, pulling his hands back from the table.
"Logan," Eleanor commanded softly, raising a single finger.
Logan stopped, but the muscles in his forearms flexed, the serpent tattoo stretching tight across his skin.
Eleanor turned her sharp, aristocratic gaze onto Vincent.
"You are very eager to close the books on Daniel, Vincent. His ashes are barely cold in the family vault."
"I am eager to protect this family from public humiliation, mother!" Vincent snapped, slamming his flat palm against the glass.
"The press is outside right now! They’re asking if Daniel Russo had a secret child with a maid who washed our dishes! The board of directors is panicking! Our stock price dropped two points this morning!"
Vincent pointed a trembling, manicured finger at Emily.
"She is a plant! Her story doesn't make sense! Daniel was a paranoid recluse for the last six months of his life! He didn't trust anyone! Why would he give a family heirloom to a girl he picked up at a street diner?"
"Because he knew you were going to kill him," Emily said.
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
The room went dead, terrifyingly silent.
The only sound was the rain hammering against the glass dome above them.
Vincent froze, his hand still resting on the table, his eyes widening in pure, venomous shock.
Croft looked down at his papers, his pen freezing mid-stroke.
Eleanor did not flinch; she slowly turned her head toward Emily, her emerald eyes narrowing with intense, calculating focus.
Logan’s grip on the back of Emily’s chair tightened until the polished cherry wood groaned beneath his palms.
"What did you say, girl?" Vincent whispered, his voice shaking with suppressed fury.
Emily felt her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she did not drop her gaze.
The fear that had paralyzed her in the ballroom was being burned away by a cold, burning clarity.
She remembered Daniel's haunted eyes on the last night she ever saw him.
She remembered how he had looked out her apartment window every five minutes, pulling the blinds back with two fingers.
She remembered how his hands had shaken as he clasped the silver chain around her neck.
"He told me he had found something rotten at the docks," Emily said, her voice steady, clear, and ringing through the solarium.
"He told me someone in his family was signing off on shipping containers that never showed up on the manifests."
Emily leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the glass table.
"He told me that if anything ever happened to him, it wouldn't be an accident. He said, 'The man who calls himself my uncle is a thief who would burn down this entire city just to rule the ashes.'"
Vincent stood up so violently his chair tipped backward, crashing against the tiled floor.
His face turned a mottled, furious red.
"You lying little gutter rat!" Vincent roared, stepping around the table toward her, his fists clenched.
"I will have you thrown in the river—"
A deafening crack echoed through the solarium.
Logan vaulted over Emily’s chair in a single, explosive movement.
Before Vincent could take another step, Logan’s left hand caught Vincent by the throat, driving the older man backward until his spine slammed hard against one of the structural steel pillars supporting the glass roof.
A spray of crystal water glasses shattered onto the floor.
Vincent choked, his eyes bulging as Logan lifted him two inches off the ground by his windpipe.
"Touch her," Logan whispered, his face inches from Vincent’s, his voice dropping into a register of pure, lethal promise.
"Take one step toward her again, and I won't wait for Grandmother’s permission. I will break your neck right here in front of your lawyer."
"Logan! Enough!" Eleanor’s voice cracked across the room like a gunshot.
Logan did not drop Vincent.
He held him pinned against the steel for three agonizing seconds, letting Vincent claw frantically at his tattooed forearm, gasping for air.
Finally, Logan opened his fingers.
Vincent slumped to the floor, coughing violently, clutching his bruised throat with both hands.
Croft stood frozen against the far wall, his face as white as paper, clutching his briefcase to his chest like a shield.
Eleanor picked up her ivory cane and slowly pushed herself up from her chair.
She walked toward where Vincent lay coughing on the floor, looking down at her son with cold, regal contempt.
"The paternity results will be delivered to this house at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, Vincent," Eleanor said, each syllable dropping like iron.
"If that child is Daniel's, you will surrender your power of attorney over the logistics contracts by noon."
She tapped the metal tip of her cane against the marble, inches from Vincent’s knee.
"And if you so much as look at Emily Carter again, I will strip your name from every trust fund, every bank account, and every deed this family owns. You will leave this estate with the clothes on your back and nothing else."
Eleanor turned away, looking at Logan.
"Take her back to the third floor. Double the security detail outside the east wing."
"Understood," Logan said.
He stepped beside Emily, wrapping a heavy arm around her shoulders to guide her out of the solarium.
As Emily turned to leave, she caught Vincent’s eyes from the floor.
He was glaring at her through strands of disheveled gray hair.
May you like
There was no fear in his gaze.
Only a cold, murderous hatred that promised that forty-eight hours would be an eternity.
