Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
The submachine gun flew from Marcus’s hand as a high-caliber bullet shattered his wrist. He let out a pathetic, high-pitched scream, collapsing against the stone wall of the vault, clutching his bleeding arm.
Julian Nero stepped through the smoke of the doorway.
He looked completely unbothered, his black shirt slightly dusty, his silver pistol steady in his right hand. His silver-gray eyes were locked onto Marcus with an expression of such cold, absolute vacancy that the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Julian!" I gasped, running past Marcus and throwing my arms around his waist.
Julian wrapped his left arm around me, holding me tight against his side, his thumb stroking my shoulder through the cashmere sweater. He didn't look down at me; his attention remained entirely fixed on the screaming man on the floor.
"Marcus Wellington," Julian said, his voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp. "You chose a very poor night to visit my home."
"Nero... please," Marcus whimpered, his face gray as he looked up at the barrel of the gun. "My father... my father will pay you whatever you want. Ten million... twenty million... just let me leave the city."
"Your father doesn't have any money left, Marcus," Julian said softly. "While you were busy playing soldier in my backyard, Marco’s team was delivering the unedited Panama files to the Federal Maritime Commission. Your family’s shipping licenses were revoked twenty minutes ago. Your father is currently sitting in an interrogation room at the southern district precinct, and your assets are being seized by the state."
Marcus’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening in total, absolute ruin. The Wellington empire—the centuries of wealth, political leverage, and untouchable prestige—had been completely dismantled in less than an hour.
Julian stepped closer, the heavy heel of his boot resting on Marcus’s uninjured hand, pinning it to the concrete floor.
"I promised Isabella’s grandfather that I would keep her safe," Julian whispered, leaning down until his shadow completely swallowed Marcus. "And I promised myself that if anyone ever made her cry again, I would bury them beneath the concrete of the north pier. Consider yourself lucky that my wife is a schoolteacher who dislikes messy floors."
He looked back at Marco, who had just stepped into the room with two zip-ties. "Take him out, Marco. Deliver him to the federal marshals with the rest of the garbage."
"Yes, Boss," Marco said, dragging Marcus from the room like a sack of wet salt.
May you like
Julian turned to me, his gun vanishing back into his holster. The absolute stone in his features dissolved into a profound, breathless relief. He took my face in both of his hands, his thumbs catching the tears that were finally falling from my eyes.
"It's over, piccola," he murmured, his voice rich and soft. "The Wellingtons are finished. You are free."
