Chapter 3 - The Breaking of the GlassThe sound of the falling chair echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling of Bishop’s Row.
Every head in the room snapped toward the corner table.
August did not run. He walked with the slow, terrifying deliberation of an avalanche beginning its descent down a mountain slope. His charcoal coat was unbuttoned, his broad shoulders squared, and his face carved from cold, white granite.
Sloan turned around, a triumphant, haughty smile playing on her lips, expecting him to join her amusement, to chastise the wretched creature kneeling at her feet and escort her out of the squalor.
"August, darling," Sloan began, lifting her ruined skirt slightly. "This disgusting creature—"
August did not stop walking. He didn't look at Sloan. His eyes were locked entirely on Mave Donnelly, who remained frozen on her knees, staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes.
When August reached them, he bypassed Sloan entirely, stepping around her as if she were nothing more than a discarded piece of trash on the pavement. He knelt down right beside Mave on the wet, filthy floor, ignoring the lentil broth soaking into the knees of his expensive trousers.
"Miss Donnelly," August said. His voice, usually a low gravel, sounded shockingly gentle in the silent room.
Mave could not speak. Her throat had closed up. She simply stared at him, trembling.
August reached out with hands that had signed death warrants and moved millions of dollars in contraband. With infinite care, he placed his large, warm palm beneath her elbow, lifting her slowly to her feet. Then, using a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket, he gently wiped a smudge of soot from her cheek.
Only then did August turn his head toward Sloan.
The look in his grey eyes made Sloan take an involuntary step backward, her breath hitching in her throat. There was no anger in his face. There was something far worse: complete, absolute eradication.
"August..." Sloan whispered, her haughtiness finally fracturing. "What are you doing? She ruined my dress! She’s a homeless beggar!"
"David," August said without raising his voice.
The driver, who had slipped inside through the side door when the shouting started, stepped forward instantly.
"Sir?" David asked.
"Escort Miss Vance off these premises," August commanded, his eyes never leaving Sloan’s terrified face. "Pack her things from the penthouse within the hour. Cancel her accounts, revoke her vehicle access, and ensure she is never permitted within three miles of any property bearing my name."
Sloan let out a shrill, hysterical laugh. "You can't do that! I'm your fiancée! I know everything about your operations! I'll go to the federal prosecutors! I'll tell them about the docks, about Trant, about—"
"You'll tell them nothing," August interrupted softly. "Because by noon, you will be on a bus bound for Omaha, Nebraska, with a one-way ticket and five hundred dollars in cash. If you ever speak my name again, you won't make it past the city limits."
He gestured to two of his enforcers who had materialized by the doors. They stepped forward, their massive frames flanking Sloan like executioners. Without another word, they grabbed her arms and dragged her backward out of the building, her protests dissolving into muffled shrieks as the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind them.
The soup kitchen was dead silent.
August turned back to Mave, who was still clutching her manila envelope against her chest.
"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly.
Mave swallowed hard, her voice trembling. "No, sir. I... I'm fine."
"You shouldn't have to kneel to anyone," August said. He reached into his coat, pulled out a thick envelope of his own, and pressed it gently into her hand. "The violin you left on the church steps this morning was a masterpiece, Miss Donnelly. The church music program needs a head restorer. The position pays three thousand a month. I expect you to start tomorrow at eight."
Mave stared at the envelope, tears finally breaking over her eyelashes, cutting clean paths through the grime on her cheeks.
May you like
August stood up, gave her a single, respectful nod, and walked out of the hall into the pouring rain.
He knew what was coming. Osgood Trant would move by nightfall. The war for the eastern docks was about to begin.
