Chapter 7 - A Mother’s Strike
Marcus let out a short, mocking chuckle, moving past Julian with practiced arrogance. “Go back upstairs, lady. Make it easy on yourself.”
He reached for his belt, his hand closing around the grip of a suppressed pistol. He expected an elderly woman to cower, to beg, or to freeze in shock. He did not expect Eleanor to lunge forward with all the fury of a wounded lioness.
Before Marcus could clear the leather holster, Eleanor swung the iron poker in a savage, horizontal arc. The heavy blackened steel connected squarely with his temple with a sickening crack. Marcus stumbled sideways, crashing into an antique console table, shattering a crystal vase into a thousand pieces.
He fell to one knee, groaning, blood pouring from his ear. But Julian didn’t hesitate. Seeing the sudden violence, he didn’t run; his eyes flared with murderous rage. He lunged at Eleanor, grabbing the iron poker with both hands and wrenching it toward her, twisting her wrist until the bone popped in its socket.
Pain spiked through Eleanor’s arm, but she refused to scream. She drove her heel directly down onto Julian’s polished dress shoe, digging into his instep. Julian cursed, losing his balance, and slammed Eleanor against the wall. His fingers closed around her throat, choking the air from her lungs.
“You stupid old bitch,” Julian hissed, spitting blood into her face. “Where is the drive?”
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Eleanor looked past his shoulder. Clara was standing at the top of the stairs, clutching a heavy marble bookend.
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