Chapter 11 - My people
Dominic Rourke had worked security for my family twenty years.
Not a hitman.
Former police.
Licensed.
Professional.
Loyal enough that loyalty itself sometimes became a problem.
After the gala he said:
“You should have let me remove her.”
“I should have removed Elowen.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you close the doors?”
“Guests were crowding.”
“Did anyone ask to leave?”
“One man.”
“What did you say?”
“Wait a moment.”
There.
Potential problem.
“For how long?”
“Maybe ten seconds.”
“Did you block him physically?”
“No.”
“Did Elias?”
“No.”
Video later confirmed.
No false imprisonment case against individual guests went anywhere.
Still, the image was ugly.
I told Dominic:
“At future events, no door closure unless there is an actual safety threat.”
He bristled.
“We were containing a confrontation.”
“You made it look like a hostage scene.”
His mouth twitched.
Almost smiled.
“Understood.”
Then he said something worse.
“Victor wants peace. We can make Marcella understand.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing illegal.”
A phrase that immediately raises legal concerns.
“Explain.”
“People stop inviting her. Sponsors stop returning calls. Boards remember what she did.”
“Through us?”
He did not answer.
“No.”
“Sir.”
“No whisper campaign. No pressure on venues. No vendors punished.”
“She attacked your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“And we do nothing?”
“We document. We litigate. We protect Elowen.”
He stared.
“That isn’t how your father handled family.”
“My father died under federal supervision.”
Silence.
“Exactly.”
May you like
That was the moment my family’s old mythology stopped feeling useful.
If I wanted Elowen to inherit something better, I had to disappoint men who equated restraint with weakness.
