Chapter 21 - The Midnight Cathedral
The rain had returned with a vengeance, drumming against the stained-glass saints of St. Jude’s Cathedral like a relentless barrage of stones.
The cathedral had stood abandoned for half a century on the bluffs overlooking the dark expanse of the Hudson River. Its stone gargoyles leaned precariously over moss-covered battlements, watching over the decaying iron gates.
I arrived alone.
Arthur had mobilized his entire private army, but I ordered them to hold a three-mile perimeter. Julian Blackwood was not a common thug like Daniel Vance, nor a reckless mobster like Lucian Laurent. Blackwood was a strategist of the highest order—a man who had orchestrated the fall of monarchies and controlled shadow banks that financed world wars.
One wrong move, and the neuro-toxin canisters rigged inside my daughter's nursery would deploy.
I pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the cathedral. The rusted iron hinges groaned in protest, echoing through the cavernous nave.
Inside, hundreds of tall beeswax candles flickered along the stone aisles, casting long, dancing shadows across rows of decaying oak pews. The scent of frankincense and damp stone hung thick in the air.
Sitting in the front pew, facing the altar of the crucified Christ, was a man in an immaculate ivory three-piece suit.
His hair was pure silver, styled with razor precision. He held a cane topped with a polished obsidian phoenix. He did not turn around as my boots clicked rhythmically against the stone floor.
"You have your mother's stride, Seraphina," Julian Blackwood said, his voice deep, resonant, and cultured. "Light on your feet, yet carrying the weight of a queen."
I stopped ten paces behind him, my hand resting within the fold of my coat, fingers wrapped around the hilt of my blade.
"Where is my daughter, Blackwood?" I demanded, every syllable laced with lethal intent.
Julian stood up slowly, leaning lightly on his obsidian cane. He turned to face me. His features were strikingly aristocratic, his eyes a piercing, unnatural shade of icy hazel. There was no hatred in his expression—only a terrifying, calculating curiosity.
"Aurelia is fast asleep in her crib, Miss Thorne," Julian replied calmly. "My operative left the penthouse the moment your car crossed the bridge. The neuro-toxin charges have been neutralized. You see... I have no desire to harm a hair on that child's head."
I narrowed my eyes, refusing to lower my guard. "You threatened to burn her cradle."
"A crude exaggeration to ensure your prompt arrival without Arthur's heavy-handed artillery turning Manhattan into a warzone," Julian sighed, stepping toward the altar. "Arthur Thorne solves all problems with cannons and checkbooks. A vulgar habit of the nouveau riche."
"My father destroyed your syndicate fifteen years ago," I said coldly. "If you think you can challenge him now, you will lose whatever breath you have left."
Julian chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Arthur didn't destroy my syndicate, little girl. Arthur Thorne stole something far more precious than gold or shipping lanes."
Julian reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a small, velvet-lined mahogany box. He opened it, revealing an ancient, yellowed parchment folded beneath a glass pane.
"What is that?" I asked.
"A marriage certificate," Julian said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the breath freeze in my lungs. "Dated twenty-six years ago in Geneva. Signed by the High Archbishop of Switzerland."
He held up the parchment.
Beneath the flickering candlelight, my eyes scanned the faded ink.
The groom: *Julian Alexander Blackwood.*
The bride: *Eleanor Vance-Thorne.*
May you like
My mother.
"Arthur Thorne didn't rescue your mother from poverty, Seraphina," Julian whispered, the cathedral falling dead silent save for the drumming rain outside. "Arthur kidnapped my lawful wife. And when she gave birth to you... he erased my name from history."