Chapter 2 - The House of the Falcon
The private living wing on the third floor of the DeMarco estate had been built in the 1930s with triple-reinforced oak timbers, leaded bullet-resistant windows, and an independent ventilation system. It was the inner sanctuary of the family fortress, accessible only by a private brass elevator keyed to Cesario’s personal biometric code.
Dr. Ronald Hayes, the family’s chief medical officer who had served three generations of DeMarcos, finished dressing Elsie’s arm with a sterile collagen salve. He placed a cool lavender compress over her swollen cheek while the little girl sat swaddled in a cashmere blanket on the oversized leather sofa, sipping warm chamomile tea from a porcelain cup.
"Superficial hematomas on the left malar bone, Don Cesario," Dr. Hayes reported quietly, stepping onto the outdoor terrace where Cesario stood watching the rain sweep across the Hudson River. "No orbital fracture, thank God. But the contusions on her forearm indicate significant mechanical force applied by an adult hand. The skin was broken by jewelry."
Cesario did not turn around. His hands rested on the carved stone balustrade, his knuckles pale against the gray granite. "And the locket, Ronald?"
"The gold chain was snapped from behind," Dr. Hayes said, setting his medical bag on a teak table. "There are minor friction abrasions across the nape of her neck. Whoever took it ripped it with intent to hurt."
Cesario closed his eyes for three seconds, feeling the phantom ache that had lived behind his ribs since Clara’s death. Clara had been his only daughter—the brilliant maritime architect who had designed the automated logistics grids for the entire Brooklyn seaport. When her car went off the Palisades Parkway twenty-four months ago, Julian had wept at the grave, promised to protect three-year-old Elsie, and within six months had married Vanessa Vance, the daughter of a bankrupt shipping broker from New Jersey.
Cesario had stepped back. He had believed his grief was blinding him. He had given Julian the executive vice presidency of the maritime holding company, hoping that the weight of an empire would forge his son into a protector.
Instead, Julian had brought a predator into his home.
The elevator chimes chimed with a low, heavy tone.
Silvio stepped out onto the terrace, carrying an encrypted tablet and a clear evidence bag containing a heavy gold filigree locket encrusted with small sapphires.
"We recovered it from Vanessa’s dressing table in the west wing, Don Cesario," Silvio said, holding out the bag. "The chain was hidden inside her jewelry safe behind the velvet liners."
Cesario took the bag. He pulled the locket out, feeling the cool, familiar metal in his palm. He pressed the hidden clasp on the side; the locket clicked open, revealing a miniature watercolor portrait of Clara holding newborn Elsie against her chest.
"Where is my son?" Cesario asked.
"In the lower gallery under Marco’s watch," Silvio replied. "Vanessa is in the formal parlor. She attempted to use her personal cellular phone three times to contact her father’s office in Newark. We jammed the local repeaters."
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Cesario tucked the gold locket into his vest pocket, right beside his heart.
"Bring Arthur Miller from the corporate compliance division," Cesario commanded. "And summon the five captains of the harbor council. It is time they see what Julian has been building behind my back."
