Chapter 9 - The Bloodline in the Ashes
Raymond froze.
The malacca cane swayed slightly in his hand.
“What did you say?”
Raymond whispered.
“You heard me,”
I replied,
the rain beating a relentless rhythm against the copper gutters above our heads.
“You thought you were killing my brother.
You thought you were eliminating Arthur’s second heir to clear a straight path to the trust.
You didn’t know Arthur had already named me the sole executor,
and that Julian was my biological child.
You killed a fifteen-year-old boy who called me father in secret.”
Attorney Finch looked sideways at Raymond,
his professional detachment beginning to fray into panic.
“Mr. Mason,”
Finch whispered,
tugging at Raymond’s sleeve.
“We should reconsider this filing.
If there are unsealed criminal allegations—”
“Shut up!”
Raymond hissed,
shaking the lawyer’s hand away with violent disgust.
He turned back to me,
his eyes bulging with an ancient,
toxic hatred.
“Arthur made you weak,
Dominic!
He coddled you,
gave you everything,
and when you broke your spine like a fragile doll,
he still left the board seats in your name!
You haven’t walked in twenty years!
You sit in this fortress like a spider,
pretending you run this city while better men do the work!
You think you can raise a boy from a wheelchair?”
From behind the heavy oak double doors of the mansion,
a sound cracked through the portico.
The door swung wide.
Megan Foster stepped out onto the porch.
She had changed into clean denim and a dark sweater Nancy had provided.
She carried no weapons.
She carried no documents.
She held Noah firmly against her hip,
the boy’s head resting against her collarbone,
his dark,
wide eyes staring down at the men on the steps with innocent curiosity.
Directly above the child’s right eyebrow,
clear in the pale gray daylight,
sat the small,
crescent-shaped birthmark.
Raymond’s eyes locked onto that mark.
His mouth fell slightly open.
His chest hitched as if he had taken a direct blow to the sternum.
“Julian…”
he breathed,
the name escaping him like an unintended confession.
“His name is Noah,”
Megan said,
her voice ringing out with an icy,
unforgiving clarity that silenced the wind.
“And Julian hated your guts,
Raymond.
The last thing he ever told me was that if you ever tried to touch our son,
I should spit in your face and tell you that he died laughing,
because he knew you would rot in hell with nothing to show for your murder.”
One of the Fulton County deputies stepped backward down the wet stairs.
“Sir,”
the deputy muttered to Raymond.
“This isn’t a routine custody sweep.
This is a contested domestic conflict with criminal implications.
We are standing down until the court reviews this in an open hearing.”
“You stay right where you are!”
Raymond roared,
turning on the officer.
“I pay for your precinct’s holiday gala!
I own your chief!”
“You don’t own anyone on this hill,
Uncle,”
I said,
my voice cutting through his outburst like a razor.
“Frank.”
Frank stepped forward,
the twelve-gauge leveling at Raymond’s chest with casual,
lethal precision.
“Escort these gentlemen to their vehicles,”
I ordered.
“If any of these cars remain on my access road in three minutes,
shoot the tires out and call the municipal towing service.”
Raymond trembled,
his cane shaking against the limestone.
He pointed a crooked,
spotted finger directly at my face.
“This isn’t over,
Dominic!
Tyler Vance is out tomorrow!
May you like
You think you can protect her from the gutter she crawled out of?
You just signed her death warrant!”
