Chapter 9 - BLOOD AND VINYL
The lock on the service gate clicked open with a sharp, mechanical snap.
I stumbled out of the tunnel, nearly tripping over my own boots as I raced up the winding stone steps into the grand drawing room.
The scene above looked like a war zone.
The antique Persian rug was stained dark with blood near the fireplace. Victor’s body lay motionless beside a shattered side table, a snub-nosed revolver clutched in his lifeless hand. Martin Doyle stood frozen near the mahogany bookshelf, his hands trembling slightly, his service weapon still drawn and pointed down at the floor.
And standing beside the antique record player—the very same record player I had danced in front of three nights ago—was Julian.
He was breathing heavily, his white dress shirt stained with a spray of dark red across the shoulder. His right hand gripped a revolver, still smoking slightly at the barrel.
He didn't look at Victor. He didn't look at Martin.
His dark eyes were fixed entirely on me as I stumbled into the room, gasping for breath, my hair wild and my face streaked with tears and soot.
“Sadie,” Julian said, his voice dangerously low. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard them,” I choked out, stepping closer despite the blood on the floor. “I was in the service tunnel. I heard everything, Julian. The fire... it wasn't an accident. Victor killed your sister, and your father helped him cover it up to save the shipping company.”
Julian’s face went completely blank—a mask of cold, terrifying stone. He slowly lowered his revolver, sliding it back into his shoulder holster with mechanical precision.
“Martin,” Julian said without taking his eyes off me. “Call the clean-up crew. Dump Victor in the harbor behind the South Boston yards. Make it look like a botched dockside shakedown.”
“Boss—,” Martin started, looking nervously between Julian and me.
“Now, Martin,” Julian commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
Martin swallowed hard, nodded stiffly, and hurried out of the room, leaving us alone amidst the wreckage of shattered glass and dark secrets.
I stood shaking in the center of the drawing room, the rain still pounding against the tall windows outside.
“You knew,” I whispered, tears spilling over my lashes. “You already knew it wasn't an accident.”
“I suspected,” Julian said softly, stepping across the blood-stained rug toward me. His steps were slow, measured, predatory. “Every item left behind was a clue pointing to Victor and my father’s inner circle. But I needed proof. And tonight, I got it.”
“And my father?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Arthur Quinn? Your father destroyed his life, Julian! He ruined him because my father wouldn't sign off on Victor’s fake safety report!”
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Julian stopped just inches away from me. The scent of rain, gunpowder, and cedar washed over me. He reached out slowly, his warm fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my tear-stained cheek.
“I know,” Julian whispered, his dark eyes fierce and protective. “And I spent the last ten years buying back every shipping share my father owned, dismantling his empire piece by piece, until I owned every square inch of the Corsini name. I didn't inherit this house, Sadie. I bought it back from the men who destroyed our families.”
