Chapter 8 - The Wolf in the Penthouse
Julian didn't look up immediately. He slowly swirled the amber liquid in his glass, letting the heavy silence stretch across the cavernous room like a tripwire.
"Nice place your grandfather built, nephew," Julian said smoothly, his voice a rich, oily baritone that grated against the nerves. "Though I must admit, I never expected the Bellandi name to be dragged down to the servant quarters for recruitment."
Marco stepped past me, placing himself squarely between Julian and where I stood holding a sleeping Noah. His massive shoulders tightened under his shirt, every line of his body radiating cold, lethal violence.
"How did you get past the biometric lobby security, Julian?" Marco asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.
Julian took a slow sip of his scotch, finally raising his sharp, pale eyes. "Please, Marco. I helped write the biometric protocols when you were still in knee-high trousers. A security system is only as loyal as the man managing it—and your head of security has expensive tastes in offshore banking."
My stomach clenched. Another traitor inside the inner circle.
Julian’s gaze shifted past Marco, landing directly on me. His thin lips curled into a condescending, predatory smile.
"Ah, the baker," Julian purred, setting his glass down on the mahogany piano with a sharp clink. "Ms. Marlowe, I presume. I must hand it to you—playing the victim while quietly siphoning off my nephew's attention with a sob story about a starving child is quite the performance. Too bad your little extortion racket with Victor just imploded at the loading dock."
I stepped around Marco’s shoulder, refusing to let the man intimidate me, even with Noah sleeping in my arms.
"Your extortion racket, you mean," I shot back, my voice steady and ice-cold. "The one your lawyers funded through a third-party shell company in the Caymans. We have the wire transfer logs, Julian. My attorney downloaded them five minutes before you decided to break into our home."
Julian’s aristocratic smile flickered for a fraction of a second—just enough to reveal the panic hiding behind his polished facade.
"Bluffing doesn't become a woman who was scrubbing floors twenty-four hours ago," Julian snapped, his composure cracking around the edges.
"It's not a bluff," Marco said softly, pulling a sleek tablet from his coat pocket and tapping the screen.
Instantly, the massive smart-display mounted on the far wall of the penthouse lit up, projecting a full-screen, notarized financial audit directly from the federal banking commission.
Julian turned around, his eyes widening as he read the glowing red headers scrolling across the glass.
"You... you pulled federal warrants?" Julian choked out, taking an involuntary step backward.
"I pulled everything," Marco said, walking slowly toward his uncle like a wolf closing in on a wounded deer. "And by sunrise, the board will have every single document detailing how you gutted our subsidiary accounts to pay for your corporate sabotage."
Julian realized he had walked straight into a titanium trap. His face twisted into a mask of pure, venomous hatred.
May you like
"You think you've won, nephew?" Julian hissed, reaching inside his jacket pocket with a sudden, jerky movement. "You're so busy protecting your little kitchen maid that you didn't even see the real bomb ticking underneath your feet."
---
