Chapter 5 - The Ashcroft Matriarch
While Councilman Hale sat weeping in the library, signing away thirty years of political capital with a shaking fountain pen, another storm was brewing in the east wing of the estate.
Bianca Ashcroft had been locked in the primary guest suite, guarded by two armed men outside the double doors. She had spent the last three hours pacing the room, tearing her hair, and screaming obscenities through the keyhole. But when the clock struck one in the afternoon, the front gate intercom buzzed.
Eleanor Ashcroft had arrived.
The matriarch of the Ashcroft family did not travel in discreet town cars. She arrived in a vintage Rolls-Royce, draped in a white fur stole, carrying an ivory-handled walking cane that served purely as an instrument of intimidation. At sixty-eight, Eleanor had buried two wealthy husbands, bullied three governors, and treated the city of Chicago as her personal country club.
She swept past the foyer guards before they could stop her, her cane clicking sharply against the marble.
“Where is he?!” Eleanor’s shrill, imperious voice echoed through the high ceilings. “Where is that peasant? How dare he lay his hands on my daughter!”
The library doors swung open.
Arthur Hale was being led toward the service exit by Luca, his head bowed, clutching a manila folder to his chest like a broken man. Eleanor glanced at him with disgust. “Arthur? What are you doing skulking around the back doors like a dog? Stand up straight, for heaven's sake!”
Arthur didn't even look at her. He hurried through the service exit into the rain, his chauffeur scrambling to keep up.
Vittorio stepped out of the library, holding a silver tray with a single cup of black coffee.
“Mrs. Ashcroft,” Vittorio said smoothly. “You’re early. I didn't expect you until afternoon tea.”
“Cut the vulgar pleasantries, Vittorio!” Eleanor snarled, marching up to him and jabbing the rubber tip of her cane toward his chest. “My daughter called me in tears! She said you assaulted her! She said you allowed a domestic servant to record her inside her own home! Have you lost what little mind your immigrant blood gave you?”
Vittorio looked down at the cane hovering an inch from his cashmere sweater.
With blinding speed, his left hand caught the shaft of the cane, wrenched it from her grip, and snapped the antique ivory handle in half over his knee with a single, sharp crack.
He tossed the broken pieces into the bronze umbrella stand.
May you like
Eleanor gasped, stumbling back against the wall, clutching her pearls in genuine, paralyzed shock. No one had ever touched her property, let alone physically disarmed her.
“The next time you point a weapon at me in my house, Eleanor, I will take your fingers,” Vittorio said, his voice flat and dead. “Now, walk into the parlor. Your daughter is waiting for you.”
