Chapter 37 - The Ghost of Christmas Past
The voice vibrating through the salon’s brass intercom speakers did not sound human. It sounded like an echo scraped raw against the concrete walls of a federal penitentiary, seasoned with twenty years of unearned entitlement and spoiled rage.
“Merry Christmas, little sister. Dad sent me to make sure you finish the list.”
Claire did not move. Her fingers remained poised above the marble console, her pulse slowing to an unnatural, glacial rhythm. When you spend your entire life being conditioned to flinch at the sound of heavy footsteps in an upstairs hallway, fear eventually ceases to be an emotion. It becomes a mathematical calculation.
On the central surveillance monitor, Julian stood beneath the glaring floodlights of Villa La Fenice’s courtyard. Rain from the oncoming Mediterranean storm had begun to mist his dark designer overcoat, plastering wet strands of pale hair across his forehead. He looked thinner than when he had been sentenced, his aristocratic jawline hollowed out by months behind bars, but his eyes burned with the manic, hollow glow of a rabid hound finally loosed from its chain.
Beneath his heavy leather boots, Matteo knelt against the gravel. Matteo’s jaw was split open, a dark crimson ribbon trailing down his neck to soak into the collar of his torn linen shirt. Yet even pinned beneath Julian’s weight, Matteo kept his eyes raised, locking his gaze into the camera lens. He was not looking for mercy; he was silently warning Claire not to open the reinforced doors.
Behind Claire, Genevieve Vance let out a ragged, trembling gasp. The matriarch was backed against the gilded bookcase, her manic laughter from moments ago curdling into sudden, suffocating panic.
“Julian,” Genevieve whispered, clutching her pearl necklace until her knuckles turned bone-white. “He wasn't supposed to touch the boy until we had the paperwork signed. Victoria promised me Julian was contained under chemical sedation until the transfer was finalized!”
Claire slowly turned her head. Her gaze was colder than the stone floor beneath them. “You bought an attack dog and thought you could control its teeth, Genevieve. Did you really believe my brother would share power with anyone once he tasted blood?”
Claire stepped toward the security terminal. She engaged the primary deadbolts across the interior breezeway, then tapped the two-way audio switch. Her voice was smooth, steady, and devoid of tremor.
“You’re trespassing on sovereign Italian property, Julian,” Claire said into the microphone. “The Carabinieri have an active checkpoint three kilometers down the coastal road. You have less than seven minutes before the regional tactical division arrives.”
Julian threw his head back, barking a harsh, dry laugh that echoed horribly through the speaker. He pressed the serrated combat blade tighter against the side of Matteo’s throat. A single bead of bright red welling up along the edge of the steel answered her bluff.
“Don’t waste your breath with the police fairy tale, Claire!” Julian shouted, leaning down toward the intercom box mounted beside the outer arch. “The local captain answered to the Valmont payroll for forty years, and thanks to Mother’s old ledger, his offshore account just received a very generous deposit from Dad. Nobody is coming up this mountain road tonight except the fog.”
May you like
Julian’s face twisted into an ugly, triumphant sneer. “Now open the blast gates, Claire. Open them right now, or I swear to God I’ll slice this Italian stray from ear to ear and leave him on your doorstep to bleed out while we discuss who truly owns the Bennett family trust.”
***
