Chapter 10 - The Midnight Ultimatum
Vincent didn't wait for Marcus to answer it. He turned on his heel, his strides long and purposeful as he descended the sweeping staircase back down to the ground-floor study, his hand resting lightly against the stitches in his side.
Camille followed closely behind him, her boots clicking silently against the hardwood.
When Vincent reached the desk, the phone was still screaming its electronic warning. He snatched the receiver off the cradle and pressed it to his ear.
"Castellano," he said.
A heavy, breathless chuckle came across the line—rich, arrogant, and dripping with southern old-money disdain.
"Well, well. They told me you were lying on a slab, Vincent, but you sound entirely too healthy for a man who took six inches of steel to the ribs," Julian Moreau’s voice purred through the secure speaker.
Vincent leaned against the edge of the mahogany desk, his free hand curling into a fist. "You waste a lot of expensive ink, Julian, sending boys with German boots and brothers with silver cufflinks to do a man’s job."
The laughter on the other end stopped instantly. The line went dead silent for three full seconds.
"I see you found Julien’s trinket," Julian said, his tone dropping all pretense of politeness, turning sharp and venomous. "He dropped it while he was admiring your taste in interior decorating. A shame about the mess he made of your Persian rug."
"The rug is replaceable," Vincent said smoothly, his eyes locked on the spot where the blood had been scrubbed away. "Your brother’s hands, however, are going to be a bit harder to fix once Marcus finishes with them."
"Try touching a hair on my brother's head, Vincent, and I will burn your sugar refineries to ash by noon tomorrow," Julian threatened, his voice rising in pitch. "The game is over. You're old, your house is compromised, and the bayou doesn't belong to a man who gets outsmarted by his own kitchen staff."
"Is that a threat, Julian?" Vincent asked, leaning closer to the mouthpiece.
"It's an eviction notice," Julian snapped. "Sign over the Lake Pontchartrain shipping contracts by sunrise, or I release every federal tax audit and land title fraud dossier we’ve compiled on your family since 1994. You'll spend the rest of your life answering to a federal judge in Atlanta."
Vincent let out a slow, deliberate breath. He looked down at the heavy black phone with the red stop-button—the button Addy had pressed with absolute, unwavering calm.
"Julian," Vincent whispered, his voice like the click of a hammer being pulled back.
May you like
"What?" Julian barked.
"You missed."
