Despite the wet cold, Daniel had removed his jacket and rolled his shirt-sleeves high on his upper arms, exposing the tattoos that identified him as a Tough. His shirt was plastered to his skin from rain and the beginning of wet snow, but he wasn’t going to hide who he was anymore. He was a Bayard Tough from Five Points. He was the son of Irish immigrants. He was also a Harvard-educated lawyer and in possession of one of the largest fortunes in the city, indeed in the country. He was a member of the Astor 400 who knew which fork to use, which suit of evening clothes to wear, and which architect to employ to design his summer cottage in Newport.
He was all of these things at once. He belonged to both worlds.
Daniel faced Clark, tense and ready, jaw clenched. “Where’s Meade?” he growled.
Clark eyed him with disdain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied. “Mr. Meade wouldn’t patronize an establishment such as this.”
It took every ounce of control Daniel possessed not to pounce on the other man and immediately begin beating him to a bloody pulp.
“It’s all going to come crashing down, Clark,” he warned. “Meade won’t save you. He has no loyalty to anyone but himself. Do you really want to take the fall for these others? Meade, Andrew Huffington?”
Ernest’s coat was already off, and he began to casually roll up his shirt-sleeves as well. “We’re really not that different, you know,” he remarked. “I came up in Chicago instead of New York, but like you, I’m not really one of them. The swells. Of course, you inherited your fortune. I made mine.” Ernest began to walk in a half circle toward him, and Daniel took a few steps in the opposite direction. Not retreating. Assessing. He knew how to fight Tommy, knew that man’s weaknesses and tricks. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Clark.
“And why risk that fortune?” Daniel asked. The crowd surrounding them was silent, watching. Ernest changed direction. He appeared to be doing his own assessing.
The other man barked a short laugh. “Taking risks is how I got where I am. I’m willing to risk everything for her.”
Daniel understood in an instant. “Sarah Huffington.” The words emerged on a cloud of white air, but he barely felt the cold.
“She’s too good for that ancient husband of hers. But the money she’ll have as a widow, combined with what we’re making … we’ll rule this town.” Ernest stopped, and Daniel could see the other man readying his body to fight. He followed suit, bending his knees slightly and tightening his fists.
“I wasn’t aware her husband had passed on,” Daniel remarked, his light tone at odds with his tense body.
Ernest smiled. “All in good time.”
Quick as a wink, Ernest slid forward, a sudden knife slashing in his hand. Daniel had seen the slight hitch of Ernest’s shoulders and correctly guessed that it signaled his readiness to move. Despite his being prepared for the lunge, though, the sharp edge of the knife nicked Daniel’s left bicep. Blood seeped through the linen of his shirt and down his arm, mingling with the inked dragons and Celtic signs that adorned his muscled flesh. He barely felt the cut, he was so intent on besting his opponent. He made his own lunge, pure rage driving his head into the other man’s midriff, knocking the breath out of Ernest and forcing him to the snowy street. Daniel quickly wrested the knife out of Ernest’s suddenly unclenched fist and sent it skittering across the cobblestones. But Ernest recovered quickly and surprised Daniel with a sharp uppercut to his jaw. Pain exploded in his mouth.
The two men’s ragged breath joined the creak of the wooden sign as the fight continued, sometimes giving Daniel the upper hand, sometimes Ernest. An occasional brief cheer arose from one side or the other if a particularly good punch was landed, but for the most part the crowd was quiet, watching. They knew, as the two main opponents did, that this could be a fight to the death.
A clattering sound broke through Daniel’s focus, and he saw Ernest lunge in its direction. Someone had kicked the knife back toward the men. In one smooth motion, Ernest swooped it up and jumped toward Daniel. Reacting instinctively, Daniel jerked to the right. The snow had been falling steadily, making the cobblestones under their feet wet and slick. Ernest’s foot slid out from underneath him when he landed, and he fell forward with a grunt, his left palm extended to brace his fall.
It didn’t help. The other man’s hand slipped as well, and he crashed onto his own face, where he lay, not moving.
Daniel waited a moment, panting, wondering if the stillness was a ruse. He approached the body cautiously, and with his foot turned the figure over.
Ernest had fallen on his own knife. It must have twisted toward his stomach as he fell, and the force of his own body weight had driven it deep, for now it was buried in the man’s belly to halfway up the hilt. Blood pooled on his shirtfront and stained the snow, while a small trickle ran from the corner of his mouth. Ernest’s mouth opened and closed a few times, a gurgling sound emerging.
“Daniel!” The voice, clear as a mountain stream he had once seen in the Swiss Alps, cut through his haze of disbelief. Genevieve pushed through the crowd and ran to him. He pulled her close in relief, before holding her at arm’s length to make sure she was unhurt. At the sight of her neck and bodice covered in blood, he hissed, turning again toward Clark’s still form, but she pulled him back.
“It was just a scratch. I’m fine. Please, look at me. I’m fine.” Daniel turned back and examined her neck carefully. The small cut had crusted over.
Some of the men who had gathered in front
