Chapter 2 - The Groom in the Mirror
The Saint Jude Estate was less a home and more a fortified limestone monument to old money and bad intentions. Perched on a high cliff overlooking the churning black waters of the Long Island Sound, the estate featured iron gates six feet high, spiked with golden fleur-de-lis, and security booths manned by private contractors who wore body armor under their tuxedo jackets.
A sleek black Mercedes bearing Brooklyn diplomatic plates didn’t slow down as it approached the gate. It accelerated.
Eli hit the horn once—a sharp, authoritative blast—and veered into the automated visitor lane. The gate arm descended, but the heavy steel reinforced bumper of the Mercedes smashed through the wooden barrier with a sharp splintering crack, sending white shards flying across the wet gravel.
Inside the back seat, Ivy stirred, her fingers clutching the sleeve of Andrew’s coat.
“Are we at the castle?” she whispered, rubbing her sleepy eyes.
“We’re at a very ugly house, Ivy,” Andrew replied, his voice calm, steady, and entirely devoid of fear. He gently unbuttoned his coat to ensure his Kimber .45 was free and accessible in its shoulder holster. “Stay in the car. Keep the locks down. Julian is going to stay right here with you. If anyone tries to open this door who isn't me, you press the lock button again and do not breathe.”
Julian, sitting in the front passenger seat, checked the slide of his subcompact Glock with a metallic shack-clack that sounded like a heavy bolt sliding into place. “Nobody touches her, Boss. Not while I’m breathing.”
Andrew stepped out of the Mercedes into the cold mist. The night air smelled of salt water and cedar trees. Across the manicured lawn, the main ballroom blazed with chandelier light. Through the tall arched windows, strings of white silk and cascading orchids could be seen, along with the blurred shapes of wealthy guests sipping champagne, entirely unaware that the foundation of their world was about to collapse.
Marcus Moretti was standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling gilt mirror in the estate’s private second-floor study, adjusting the velvet lapel of his tailored cream tuxedo. He looked at his reflection with absolute satisfaction.
At thirty-five, Marcus had inherited half the syndicates in Queens and Brooklyn through a combination of ruthless corporate buyouts, strategic poisonings, and a smile that reached his eyes only when someone was suffering. Tonight was supposed to be the crowning achievement of his portfolio: marrying Nurse Sarah Callahan would grant him legal custody over her administrative files at Ashwood Nursing Home, completely burying the paper trail of illegal drug trials, altered medical logs, and institutionalized prisoners like Daniel Mercer.
The door to the study burst open without a knock.
Marcus didn't even turn around, assuming it was one of his floor managers. “If this is about the catering, tell them to wait until after the vows. I want the press outside to see a picture-perfect romance. Did the retrieval team bring the girl?”
“The retrieval team is currently sleeping in the trunk of a Buick in Brooklyn,” a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the doorway.
Marcus froze. His hands dropped from his lapels. In the gilt mirror, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the threshold. Andrew Mercer’s face was half-shadowed by the dim light of the hallway, but the silver cufflinks and the cold, unblinking stare were unmistakable.
Marcus slowly turned around, his face draining of color, though he tried to keep his voice steady.
“Andrew,” Marcus forced a thin, oily smile. “What an unexpected guest. Security must be slipping. Or did you get lost on your way to a funeral?”
Andrew didn't answer right away. He walked slowly into the room, his heavy shoes clicking rhythmically against the herringbone wood floor. He looked at the crystal decanter of scotch on the mahogany desk, the marriage license resting beside it with a golden notary seal, and the gold-embossed invitations scattered across the surface.
“Marcus,” Andrew said softly, stopping three feet away. “Do you know what my brother liked to do when we were boys?”
Marcus swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the desk where a silver-plated Beretta sat hidden beneath a stack of wedding folders. “Andrew, let’s be reasonable. Whatever debt or territory dispute you think we have—we can sit down with the commission next week. This is a private family matter.”
“My brother liked to draw blueprints,” Andrew continued, ignoring him entirely. “He wanted to build things that lasted. Bridges, schools, libraries. People-places. He had a gentle heart. He couldn't even watch our father handle the enforcers without leaving the room.”
Andrew took another step forward. The air in the room grew heavy, suffocating.
“And for nine years,” Andrew’s voice dropped into a register so cold it felt like winter frost, “my brother was kept in a basement room at Ashwood Nursing Home. Sedated. Forgotten. Starved down to eighty pounds because men like you wanted to use his name to steal federal healthcare grants.”
“He was a vegetable!” Marcus snapped, his panic finally breaking through his polished veneer. He lunged for the desk, his hand diving under the wedding folders. “He was a dead man anyway! You can’t prove—”
Andrew didn't draw his gun. He moved with terrifying, blinding speed.
Before Marcus’s fingers could close around the grip of the Beretta, Andrew’s hand lashed out, slamming Marcus’s wrist down against the sharp mahogany corner of the desk with a sickening crunch of bone. Marcus shrieked, a high-pitched, feminine sound of agony, as the silver gun clattered harmlessly to the floor.
Andrew grabbed Marcus by the throat, hoisting him off his feet with one hand and slamming him hard against the gilt mirror. The glass shattered instantly, radiating a spiderweb of cracks around Marcus’s head as the heavy frame shuddered on the wall.
“Where is Sarah Callahan?” Andrew demanded, his face inches from Marcus’s sweating, distorted features.
“Downstairs!” Marcus gasped, clawing desperately at Andrew’s iron grip. “The... the chapel wing! The ceremony hasn't started yet! She’s locked in the vestry!”
Andrew released his grip slightly, letting Marcus slump against the broken glass, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
“If she has a single bruise on her,” Andrew whispered, pressing the muzzle of his Kimber against the bridge of Marcus’s nose, “I won't kill you. I’ll give you to my men, and they will spend the next ten years teaching you what it feels like to be kept in the dark.”
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Marcus whimpered, tears streaming down his face, his expensive cream tuxedo stained with his own blood from a split lip. “Take her! Take the papers! Just don't kill me!”
Andrew stepped back, wiping his hand with a pristine silk handkerchief as if he had just touched something foul. He didn't look at Marcus again as he turned and walked out of the study, locking the heavy oak door from the outside with a solid click.
