Chapter 20 - Shadows in the Champagne
The House of Blackwood.
The moment the name left Admiral Montgomery's lips, the warmth evaporated from Arthur Thorne’s eyes. The hand holding his crystal glass tightened until his knuckles turned as white as porcelain.
"Blackwood?" Arthur asked, his voice a razor-thin blade. "Julian Blackwood has been in self-imposed exile in the Swiss Alps for fifteen years. His family took an oath before the High Council never to set foot in Atlantic waters."
"Oaths mean very little to men who believe their time has come, Arthur," Gabriel whispered. "The manifest was carrying over twenty tons of high-grade telecommunication jamming equipment. The exact kind used to blind your radar sensors the night Aurelia was taken."
I took a slow breath, setting my glass down on a passing waiter’s tray. "Lucian Laurent was never the mastermind. He was just the battering ram."
Arthur turned to me, his expression grave. "Julian Blackwood was my greatest rival long before Daniel Vance’s grandfather even opened his first bank. When your mother disappeared twenty-two years ago, Julian was the man who harbored the traitors."
The ballroom suddenly felt suffocatingly warm. The orchestra was playing a waltz, the diamond necklaces of the elite glittering under chandeliers, but to me, every shadow behind the velvet drapes looked like an assassin.
"Father," I said softly, my maternal instinct flaring like wildfire. "We need to go home. Now."
"Sterling has forty men around the penthouse, Seraphina," Arthur reassured me, placing a steadying hand over mine. "Aurelia is safe."
"No," I insisted, the chill spreading across my chest. "If Julian Blackwood is involved, forty men won't be enough. He knows Thorne protocol. He knows how we think."
Before Arthur could answer, the lights in the grand ballroom flickered violently.
A loud pop echoed from the circuit risers in the ceiling, followed by a shower of sparks. The music died instantly. The room plunged into pitch-black darkness, punctuated only by the panicked screams of high-society women and the crashing of crystal flutes.
"Emergency generators!" Arthur bellowed, instantly stepping in front of me, drawing a concealed sidearm from his tuxedo coat. "Sterling! Form a perimeter!"
Red emergency lights hummed to life along the baseboards, casting the vast ballroom in an eerie, bloody glow.
Through the chaos, a server in a black waistcoat pushed past the fleeing guests, walking directly toward Arthur and me. He wasn't panicked. He wasn't running. His hands were clasped behind his back.
"Stand down, or I'll put a bullet through your spine," Arthur warned, raising his weapon with absolute lethality.
The server stopped five paces away. He bowed respectfully, showing no fear whatsoever.
"Good evening, Mr. Thorne. Miss Thorne," the man spoke in a calm, flat Swiss accent. "My employer sends his warmest regards on this glorious evening."
"Who is your employer?" I demanded, my hand slipping inside my gown where my ceramic blade was strapped to my thigh.
The server reached slowly into his breast pocket, producing a heavy, silver-plated envelope stamped with the black wax seal of a phoenix rising from an iron crown.
"Lord Julian Blackwood requests the honor of Miss Thorne’s presence at the Old Cathedral at midnight," the server said, extending the envelope. "He asks that you read this before you decline."
Arthur moved to strike the man down, but I grabbed my father’s arm. "Wait."
I stepped forward, snatched the envelope from the server’s white-gloved hand, and broke the wax seal.
Inside was a single photograph, taken less than ten minutes ago.
It showed the nursery in our penthouse. The guards outside were not dead—they were frozen in place, subdued by neuro-toxin dart rounds. And sitting beside Aurelia’s crib, gently rocking the silk bassinet, was a man in an immaculate white suit, wearing a silver signet ring depicting the Blackwood phoenix.
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Written beneath the photograph in elegant, sweeping calligraphy was a single line:
*“A mother's courage is formidable, Seraphina. But a bloodline cannot escape its true origin. Come alone, or the cradle burns.”*