Chapter 9 - Blood Ties and Broken Vows: The Brother Who Smiled in My Face
I walked up the basement stairs into the grand rotunda.
The emergency floodlights were flickering on as the FBI secured the estate’s power grid.
Julian Sterling was backed against the grand marble fountain beneath Isabelle’s portrait. His tailored suit was disheveled, his tie crooked, and his eyes wild with the manic, unhinged realization that his eight-billion-dollar empire had collapsed into dust.
He held his pistol with two trembling hands, pointing it erratically at the four FBI agents who had surrounded him with carbines drawn.
“Stay back!” Julian screamed, his voice cracking into a high-pitched shriek. “I’m the CFO of Romano Enterprises! You don't know who you’re dealing with! I have judges on retainer! I have senators on my payroll!”
“Put the gun down, Julian,” the FBI tactical commander ordered. “It’s over. Vance’s servers have been seized. We have the wire transfers. We have the dashcam footage. You’re looking at capital murder and treason.”
Julian looked at the agents, then his eyes locked onto me as I stepped into the rotunda.
His face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom.
“You!” Julian screamed, aiming the pistol directly at my chest. “You had everything, Dominic! You had the name, you had the empire, you had Isabelle! I built this company with my bare hands while you played the noble patriarch! I deserved that seat! I deserved the fortune!”
“You killed Isabelle for money,” I said, walking slowly toward him, ignoring the red laser dots dancing across his chest. “She treated you like a brother. She invited you to our home for Thanksgiving. She trusted you around our children.”
“She was a threat!” Julian spat, his finger tightening on the trigger. “She was going to take everything away from me! And those pathetic, mute little brats—I should have made Marcus finish the job in the parking lot!”
Those words sealed his fate.
Before Julian could pull the trigger, a loud, sharp crack echoed from the second-floor mezzanine.
BANG.
A .380 bullet struck Julian’s right wrist.
His pistol flew from his shattered hand, clattering into the marble fountain, splashing water across the tiles.
Julian dropped to his knees, screaming in agony, clutching his bloody forearm.
I looked up at the second-floor balcony.
Standing by the mahogany railing, holding the smoking .380 pistol in a perfect two-handed tactical stance, was Grace Bennett.
Behind her, holding onto her skirt with bright, fearless eyes, were Olivia, Sophie, and Nora.
They weren't hiding.
They weren't trembling.
They were standing together, looking down at the monster who had terrorized them for fourteen months, their heads held high.
“Federal agents, secure the suspect!” the FBI commander roared.
Four agents tackled Julian to the marble floor, forcing his arms behind his back, clicking the cuffs onto his wrists as he sobbed and cursed into the wet stone.
I didn't watch them drag Julian away.
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I didn't care about the federal agents, the flashing red and blue lights reflecting through the grand front windows, or the sirens wailing in the distance.
I dropped my shotgun, turned, and sprinted up the grand staircase.
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