Chapter 4 - The Sound of Breaking Glass
Books scattered across the Persian rug like dead leaves.
Marcus let out a strangled gasp as Rex’s jaws clamped securely around the fabric of his sleeve, pinning his arm to his side before he could clear his holster. The Walther skittered across the floorboards, coming to rest near Julian’s polished boot.
Julian looked down at the gun, then slowly raised his eyes to Marcus, who was pinned beneath sixty pounds of furious muscle, his glasses cracked across the bridge of his nose.
"Don't do it, Marcus," Julian warned, his voice barely above a whisper. "The dog hasn't broken skin yet. That’s a courtesy I’m extending out of respect for the last twelve years. Don't make me revoke it."
"He... he was going to cut you out, Julian!" Marcus wheezed, blood trickling from a small cut on his forehead where he had struck the shelf. "Thomas has the federal prosecutors in his pocket. The whole operation—Memphis, Knoxville, the Gulf—it’s all being handed over in exchange for immunity. I was just trying to secure a parachute!"
"By selling out the family that fed you?" Julian asked, his voice chillingly level. He bent down, picked up the Walther, and checked the magazine. Fully loaded. Standard issue federal enforcement. "Thomas is a vulture. I've known that since we were boys. But you, Marcus? You were supposed to be the architect."
"The syndicate is dying, Julian," Marcus spat, spitting a drop of blood onto the Persian rug. "The old ways are done. The feds are closing the net. You think your little domestic bubble here—the housekeeper, the toddler, the dog—is going to protect you from a RICO indictment?"
Julian didn't answer right away. He walked over to the tall French windows that looked out over the darkened courtyard. Down below, a single light burned in the servants' quarters in the East Wing. He could see the faint silhouette of Camille through the sheer curtains, moving back and forth, rocking little Elsie to sleep.
That simple, domestic rhythm—unaware of the blood and betrayal pulsing through the floorboards above them—anchored him in a way the syndicate never could.
"My father always told me that men who build empires on fear eventually forget how to recognize loyalty," Julian said, turning back to face his former second-in-command. "He was right. I spent twenty years looking over my shoulder for assassins, forgetting that the real rot always starts in the ledger room."
Julian pressed a button on his desk intercom.
"Get in here," Julian commanded into the speaker. "And bring industrial zip ties."
Within thirty seconds, two armed enforcers entered the study, their faces grim as they hauled Marcus to his feet. They didn't ask questions. In Julian’s world, questions were a luxury reserved for the dead.
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As Marcus was dragged out into the cool night air, Julian walked over to the desk, picked up his cold coffee, and poured it into the wastebasket.
The game was changing. And Thomas was next.
