“It is already done. Five of you will be dead within the next hour.”
The reactions of those assembled around the table varied from person to person, but Theodore Thornewill was pleased to see the unmistakable glint of fear flash across each and every pair of eyes now fixed on him.
Penelope Hattish tried to hide it. A stern woman in her mid-sixties, she had made her way through life never showing weakness. It was why Theodore had appointed her CLO in what felt like a different lifetime. Her tenacity had served her well in the courtroom and in Kondor’s board meetings, but nature was nature. When faced with its own potential mortality, even a lioness balked a bit.
Timothy Thornewill, his eldest, reacted much the same, though what mettle there was which kept Penelope’s spine rigid in the face of adversity was not granted to him in as great a supply. Still, Theodore admired the effort. His son’s face, to any other discerning eye, would appear stoic and unchanged, but a father knew. He saw the quavering corners of his mouth, the moistness in those icy blue eyes which his mother had given him. If Penelope was a lioness, Timothy was a tiger — only made of paper.
Molly Thornewill, his youngest, had screeched and dropped her champagne flute, shattering the fine crystal across the vintage Dalbergia dining table. She had always been flamboyant in her emotions, undoubtedly aiding her acting aspirations (though having a father who owned the world’s second-largest media conglomerate made the industry’s closed doors into gaping entryways) and making her into a “star” for something other than being born into high society. If there was ever a time for theatrics, this was it.
Austin Brohm didn’t even hear the glass shatter. His round face had gone white as a sheet and his mouth, which was rarely ever closed to begin with, hung open in slack astonishment. A big man, Austin was a senior board member of Kondor Media Group who took routine joy in using their meetings as an excuse to eat free food and shout his opinions at a captive audience. He had guzzled down the free champagne, as Theodore had no doubt he would, but he wasn’t shouting now.
Sebastian Galaz, his ex-brother-in-law and another board member, had also broken his glass, hurling it at Theodore before he had even finished speaking. He had always possessed a firy temper, Sebastian, and age had not dampened it. Luckily, it had weakened his arm and the champagne flute had dashed itself harmlessly across the floor.
Erin Thornewill, his middle child and first daughter, was the only one who surprised him. There was fear in her eyes, yes, same as the others, but she also looked genuinely surprised. Of all of them gathered here, she was the most clever, Theodore himself excluded. Yet, her face — more like his own than his other children, both of whom took after their late mother — was painted with unabashed shock. Since she fist sat on his lap with a deck of cards, Theodore had taught her how to hide her tells. She had taken to the lessons quickly. They led her to many a big payday at the tables. She knew how to obscure her emotions, had honed that skill over three decades, and here she was, showing all her cards.
Clever, thought Theodore. As always.
Timothy upended his glass, spilling out the remainder of his champagne.
“The poison is potent,” said Theodore in the calm, steady cadence he had used to build an empire. “A swallowful is enough, it wouldn’t matter if you drank every last drop left or had just taken a thimble’s worth. As I told you, it is already done.”
They had all drank. Why wouldn’t they? It was a toast, after all, and they had all come here on the promise of celebration. He had spoken the truth. In an hour, five of them would be dead.
And one of them would be very, very rich.
To be continued…