“How are you to prove that Marshall Seo is a White Flower?” Juliette asked.
General Shu pulled a revolver from his holster. He did not point it at her, at anyone. He merely examined it, opening and closing the cylinder to check his bullets.
“What would you prefer, Miss Cai?” he said. “The letter he wrote when he ran from me, declaring his intent to survive on his own in Shanghai by joining the White Flowers? News clippings I’ve kept over the years that report him to be the Montagov heir’s right-hand man? I have them all—just give the word.”
Juliette bit down on the inside of her cheeks, throwing Benedikt a glance, hoping he had some idea of their next move.
But Benedikt looked startled beyond description. When General Shu put his revolver back into its holster, the street was quiet enough that Benedikt’s low murmur could be heard very clearly.
“Ran from you?”
Marshall grimaced, looking away. He had stopped struggling.
“He never told you?” General Shu asked. “I assume he said that we were all dead, didn’t he?” He looked at Marshall. Now, out in the light, the resemblance appeared. The same face shape, the same lines crinkling at the eyes.
“You are,” Marshall seethed, his voice a sudden crack in the air. He had never before seemed so furious: careless, cheery Marshall, who had never angered once in Juliette’s presence, was now red in the face and shaking, the tendons in his neck standing at attention. “When Umma died and you weren’t home, for all that it mattered, you were dead to me too.”
General Shu didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked a little bored. He didn’t even seem to be listening.
“I will not discuss your mother with you in the middle of the street. We may have a nice sit-down later if you wish to talk. Mr. Montagov, would you please get out of the way?”
Roma remained firm. His brows were drawn. Juliette knew that look: he was trying to buy time, but the problem was that more time was not going to help the present situation.
“This is not your jurisdiction,” Roma said quietly. “When Miss Cai says you can go, only then may you go.”
General Shu put his hands behind his back, behind all the weapons at his belt. When he spoke again, he really did address Juliette, like Juliette had any control over what was to happen here.
“I have no interest in whatever strange arrangement between gangsters this is. All I want is to take my son home with me. I stay quiet about your business; you leave my business to me.”
A wad of spit narrowly missed his face. General Shu stepped back, but Marshall looked like he was gearing up to do it again.
“You think you can just march in here,” Marshall exclaimed. “You march into this city even though you did none of the work to take it. You march in and grab me like I’m your damn property. Where were you all these years? You knew I was here. You could have fetched me at any point. But you didn’t! The Revolution was more important! The Kuomintang was more important! Everything but me was more important!”
General Shu said nothing. Juliette’s grip tightened on her gun, tightened on the trigger. She wondered what would happen if she shot him. She wondered if she could get away with it. A year ago it would have been nothing. Today it would be a declaration of war against the Nationalists, and the Scarlets—tough as they were—could not fight such a war. It would be annihilation.
“But now,” Marshall went on, “now that you’re in Shanghai anyway, you may as well tie up your loose ends, right? Everything is falling into place: your country and your happy little family.” He spat again, but it wasn’t aimed at his father this time. Merely an expulsion of the anger within his body, like popping a bullet out from its exit wound.
“Well, Miss Cai?”
Juliette started. Despite Marshall’s speech, his father was still speaking to her. “It sounds like he doesn’t want to go,” she said tightly.
At once, by some signal that Juliette had not caught, the soldiers all stood to attention, saluting. Then they aimed their rifles at Roma, ready to shoot.
“Don’t make things difficult,” General Shu said. “Staying with the White Flowers is a death sentence. You know what is coming. I’m keeping him safe.”
“Don’t,” Benedikt muttered from beside Juliette. “Don’t believe it.”
But this wasn’t a matter of believing or not. This was . . . truth. This was knowing that the gangsters were near collapse. No more territories. No more thriving black market. How long could they hold on for? How long could the White Flowers survive, given they didn’t have Nationalist support like the Scarlets did?