Chapter 27

  The parlor was warm, fire snapping in the grate, but the room still felt cold. Morning light filtered through Martha’s lace curtains, glancing off the badges of the two FBI agents standing in the doorway. Their shoes left damp prints on the braided rug, each step heavy as if they carried the weight of accusation.

  I perched on the edge of the sofa, Tudor coiled on my lap like a loaded spring. Richard stood near the mantel, hands folded behind his back, giving nothing away.

  Special Agent Halvorsen flipped open a black notebook, his pen tapping like a metronome. “We processed the safehouse in New London. The body you reported—Corwin Thorne— wasn’t there.”

  My stomach dropped.

  Halvorsen’s partner, Agent Ruiz, spoke up, her voice sharper. “What we *did* find were scorch marks. Floorboards burned straight through. No blood. No remains. Just… fire.”

  I felt everyone’s eyes turn toward me. Richard didn’t flinch.

  Ruiz leaned forward, relentless. “So tell us again—what exactly happened in that attic?” I swallowed.

  Halvorsen didn’t give me time to answer. His voice cut in, low and edged with anger. “Do you even understand who Corwin Thorne was? We’ve been tracking him for nearly two years. He ran more than one trafficking pipeline through New England—girls, boys, undocumented, no one noticed until the bodies started dropping. We finally had him

  *contained*. Do you get that?”

  Ruiz’s jaw flexed. “And now you’re telling us he’s just… gone? No body, no ID, no closure?” The room felt smaller. The fire too hot.

  Martha’s teacup clicked softly onto its saucer. She had been silent all morning, sitting in her high-backed chair as though she were only here to provide refreshments. Now she looked at the agents with the same patience she used when explaining overdue books to stubborn patrons.

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  “It was self-defense,” she said. Her voice was calm, measured, but it carried. “You’ll find we don’t invite violence into our home. We repel it when it crosses our threshold.”

  Halvorsen raised an eyebrow. “With what? Fire?”

  “Sometimes fire is the only answer,” Steve cut in. His hand rested on the arm of Martha’s chair, steady, grounding. “And before you start chasing rumors—remember the name Warren. We have given to this country for generations. We’ve buried more kin in its soil than you’ll find listed in your records.”

  Ruiz ignored him, snapping her gaze to Richard. “And you. The Brit with no last name. You expect us to believe you just… happened to be in that attic when our fugitive disappeared? Sounds a lot like obstruction. Or worse.”

  Richard’s jaw tightened, but his voice was even. “What I expect, Agent Ruiz, is that you recognize what happened up there was beyond your jurisdiction. And to be clear, I am Welch, not Brittish.”

  Ruiz scoffed. “Jurisdiction? That attic was in Connecticut, not in whatever empire you think you serve.”

  Richard’s eyes cooled, glacial. “And yet, for all your warrants and wiretaps, Thorne still slipped through your fingers. Perhaps ask yourself why.”

  Ruiz took a step closer, shoulders squared. “Because someone like you swooped in with secrets and sanctimony, leaving us with ash where justice should be.”

  Richard didn’t move, but the air seemed to tighten around him. “Justice is not always measured in chains and courtrooms.”

  “Spoken like a man with something to hide.”

  “Spoken,” Richard said, voice low, “like someone who’s seen what your courts cannot contain.”

  Halvorsen lifted a hand, trying to rein it in, but Ruiz’s glare never left Richard. For a heartbeat, it felt like one more word might light the whole parlor aflame.

  That’s when the knock came—three brisk raps. The air shifted.

  Two men in tailored coats entered without waiting for welcome, carrying embossed leather briefcases. The order of the Maltese Guard. The older one smiled with the courtesy of a knife being drawn. “Agents. This matter has already been addressed. Jurisdiction lies elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere?” Halvorsen’s jaw tightened. “We have federal procedures.” “You have paperwork,” the lawyer corrected smoothly. “We have control.”

  The fire popped in the hearth, throwing sparks. Richard finally moved, stepping between the factions like a neutral stone wall.

  I sat frozen, torn between dread and fury. The FBI wanted answers. The Vatican wanted silence. And my family—the Warrens—had just shown they could tip the scales, if they chose to play their hand again.