The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 817

The garage wing smelled of oil, wet dog and fresh bread.

Felicia came in with the morning paper under her arm and her face pink from running. The dog lifted its head from Alex's slipper and thumped its tail once.

"Prince. Look."

She spread the Coast Gazette across the workbench. Preston filled the whole front page, standing on the steps in his dark suit, his chin up. Above him, in letters as tall as a thumb: HARBOUR HERO.

"It's a very good picture," Alex said.

"That's not all." Felicia lowered her voice. "The Baroness is giving a dinner for him. Tonight, in the great hall. The mayor's coming. Half the coast. And you're to carry the trays."

"Will there be bread?"

"Prince." She looked at him, and her eyes were wet. "Somebody killed every man on the docks the night you went walking. And this morning you're asking about bread."

Alex broke a roll in half and gave the bigger piece to the dog.

"I walked a long way," he said. "I'm very hungry."

Felicia opened her mouth. Then she folded the paper slowly and did not ask what she had decided not to ask.

On the hill above Calder, behind high white walls, Howard Black was cutting roses with a pair of silver scissors. His adviser, Douglas Coleman, an old man in a grey suit, stood beside him.

"Connor Russell called again," Douglas said. "The third time."

"Poor boy." Howard snipped a stem and turned the rose in his fingers. "His father dead, his arm dead, and a Tiffany grinning on every screen."

"He wants Preston Tiffany dead. And the house with him."

"Victor was a brother of the order."

The warmth bled from Howard’s handsome features. "Who dared touch one of our own?" He set the rose into the basket with quiet deliberation. "Can you truly believe it? That boy, prone upon the floor of the Grand, slaughtering Victor Russell and every man at his back under cover of darkness?"

"No, sir. Victor called me the night before he died. He wanted a man at the Grand dealt with. He didn't say who. Then the lights went out." Douglas tapped the basket. "Somebody stands behind that boy. Whoever moves on the Tiffanys first may be next."

"Then I don't move."

"You don't need to. Victor had a sworn brother. Curtis Bennett, the Brotherhood's enforcer. When one of them falls, the Brotherhood rides for its own." Douglas smiled thinly. "Tell Curtis. Let him do the rest. Then we sit back and watch the show."

Howard cut another rose, and his eyes lit up.

"Call him," he said. "Now."

That evening, the great hall of the Tiffany house blazed with light.

In a small room off the hall, Preston stood in front of a long mirror while Patricia fixed his tie.

"Stop shaking," she said.

"I'm not shaking."

"Your tie is shaking, Preston. Ties don't shake on their own." She pulled the knot tight. "Somebody asks you how you did it, you smile. You say a Tiffany doesn't forget. That's all you ever say."

"Pat." He caught her wrist. "That night. After the Grand. I didn't make any calls."

"I know."

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