Chapter 7: The Strike in the Vault
Julian did not step aside.
He didn't plead, and he didn't lower his gaze. Through twelve years of competitive boxing and street altercations before returning to manage the family firm, Julian had learned to read the precise micro-expressions that preceded violence: the slight flare of the nostrils, the tightening of the tendons in the wrist, the minute shift in weight to the back foot.
Nicholas had never fought a man who fought back. Nicholas relied on intimidation, status, and the cowardly advantage of surprise.
"You always were too loud, Nicholas," Julian said softly.
In the fraction of a second when Nicholas's finger tightened on the trigger, a sharp, metallic ring echoed behind him.
From the shadowed alcove where the heavy oak port casks were racked, Walter stepped forward. The elderly butler swung a three-foot steel bung-starter—the heavy iron mallet used to open wooden casks—striking Nicholas squarely across the forearm with all the leverage of his sixty-year-old frame.
The gun fired with a deafening roar that shattered the cellar air, the bullet biting deep into the brick archway above Julian's head, showering them in white plaster dust. The weapon clattered to the damp concrete floor.
Nicholas screamed in rage and shock, clutching his broken wrist as he stumbled backward.
Julian didn't hesitate. He surged forward in two explosive strides, closing the distance before Nicholas could recover his balance. Dropping low, Julian drove a brutal, compact right hook into Nicholas's solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp, followed by a crisp, textbook left cross that caught the older brother cleanly on the point of his aristocratic chin.
Nicholas struck the concrete floor with a dull, heavy thud, his eyes rolling back as unconsciousness claimed him. The heavy gold signet ring slipped from his limp finger, rolling across the stones until it came to rest against Julian's shoe.
Julian stood over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles bruised, the desert wind of his past finally dying down inside his mind.
Walter stood leaning against his iron mallet, breathing heavily, his white hair disheveled, his dignity shaken but intact.
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"I believe," Walter wheezed softly, straightening his bow tie with trembling fingers, "that my assessment of Mr. Nicholas's claim to this house was... profoundly mistaken."
"Pick up the gun, Walter," Julian ordered, turning back toward Clara and his father. "We have six minutes to reach the boat."
