Chapter 5 - The Confrontation
The trouble arrived just after dinner, dressed in an Italian wool suit and smelling of expensive brandy.
Victor Moretti was Gabriel’s older cousin by three years, a man who believed that because he had survived the old man’s regime with his skin intact, he was entitled to a vote in every aspect of Gabriel’s life. He strode through the formal dining room uninvited, tossing his cashmere overcoat onto the back of an empty Chippendale chair.
"Soup’s cold," Victor announced, dropping unceremoniously into the seat opposite Gabriel.
Gabriel didn't look up from his steak. He cut a precise, square piece of beef, chewed it slowly, and set his silver down.
"You weren't invited for dinner, Victor," Gabriel said.
"Family doesn't need an invitation, Gabe. Especially when family is making mistakes that affect the syndicate." Victor leaned forward, his rings clicking against the mahogany. "I heard about the docks this morning. You let the Russos walk away from the pier lease without a fight. People are talking. They think you've gone soft since the girl died."
Gabriel’s eyes darkened, but his voice remained dangerously level. "My wife died. And my business is none of your concern."
"It becomes my concern when your head is in the clouds," Victor sneered, waving a hand toward the nursery upstairs. "And speaking of clouds... what the hell is going on with your staff? I saw some round kitchen worker hauling lumber through the courtyard this afternoon like she was building a cabin in the Adirondacks."
Gabriel’s fingers tightened around his wine glass. "Her name is Emma. She’s the maid."
"She’s an amateur," Victor spat. "I asked her to fetch me a scotch when I came in through the side hall. Do you know what she told me?"
"No," Gabriel said softly. "Do tell."
"She told me the liquor cabinet was locked and that I should use the fountain in the garden if I was thirsty." Victor’s face flushed a mottled red. "A maid! In this house! In our house! You’ve got people wandering around here who don't know their place, Gabe. You’ve got strangers watching your kids while you sit up in that damn study playing accountant."
The dining room went dead silent.
Even the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to hold its pendulum.
Gabriel stood up.
He was taller than Victor, broader through the chest, and carried himself with the heavy, unhurried grace of a predator that didn't need to bare its teeth to win an argument. He walked around the table until he stood directly behind Victor’s chair, leaning down so his mouth was an inch from his cousin's ear.
"Victor," Gabriel whispered, his voice like grinding stones. "Listen to me very carefully."
"Gabe—"
"This house is mine. Not my father's. Not yours. Mine." Gabriel’s hand dropped onto Victor’s shoulder, his fingers pressing into the fabric of the expensive suit with enough force to bruise the bone beneath. "If Emma Brooks carries lumber through my courtyard, she does it because I want her to. If she tells you to drink from the garden fountain, you should consider yourself lucky she didn't throw you into it."
Victor tried to shrug off the hand, but Gabriel’s grip didn't yield an inch.
"She’s a peasant, Gabe—"
"She is in my house," Gabriel interrupted, his voice dropping another octave until it vibrated in the crystal chandeliers above them. "And you are currently testing how many teeth you get to keep when you leave."
Gabriel straightened up, stepping back.
"Get out, Victor. Before I remember that you still owe me three million from the Brooklyn shipping docks."
Victor scrambled out of the chair, his face pale beneath his tan, his expensive coat clutched to his chest like a shield. He muttered an oath under his breath, backed toward the double doors, and practically bolted into the night.
Gabriel stood alone in the dining room for a long moment, breathing through his nose.
He turned toward the kitchen doors.
Emma was standing there, holding a silver tray with a fresh pot of coffee. She had apparently been there for the last thirty seconds. Her face was calm, her hazel eyes looking at him with a strange mixture of assessment and something dangerously close to approval.
"He’s right about one thing," Emma said quietly, stepping into the room to clear Victor’s untouched plate.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Which is?"
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"The scotch," she said, lifting the crystal glass. "It is a bit early for liquor, even for men who yell in dining rooms."
Gabriel stared at her, the dark tension in his shoulders suddenly giving way to a strange, involuntary huff of breath that might have been a laugh if he remembered how to make the sound.
