Chapter 12 - The Finger on the Trigger
The struggle for the revolver was vicious and silent, the two of them wrestling near the edge of the mahogany table as candles flickered wildly in the draft.
"Let go of the gun, Julian!" Eleanor snarled, her face contorted with a desperate, feral rage that erased every trace of her usual aristocratic elegance. "She will destroy everything we built! Everything you own will be confiscated by the state before the morning bell rings!"
"I don't care about the empire!" Julian shouted back, wrenching the heavy weapon sideways just as Eleanor's finger slipped against the trigger.
CRACK.
The deafening roar of the gunshot echoed off the concrete walls, the muzzle flash illuminating the dark room in a blinding strobe of white light.
A heavy, sickening thud followed immediately.
Julian froze, his hand still clamped around his mother's wrist, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the small space and stinging their eyes.
Slowly, Julian turned his head.
Thomas Vance was leaning against the mahogany bookcase, his hands clutched tightly to his chest as a dark, spreading stain of crimson soaked rapidly through the front of his grey vest and black silk tie.
"Father..." Julian whispered, dropping the revolver to the floor as it clattered against the Persian rug.
Thomas looked down at his chest, his eyes wide with disbelief, before his knees buckled and he slid slowly down the polished wood of the bookcase, leaving a thick smear of blood in his wake.
Eleanor dropped to her knees beside him, her beige coat soaking in the spreading pool of crimson, her hands hovering helplessly over the fatal wound.
"Thomas... Thomas, look at me," Eleanor choked out, her stoic composure shattering into violent, uncontrolled sobbing for the first time in forty years. "Call an ambulance! Julian, call an ambulance right now!"
"There are no phones down here, Mother," Clara said, her voice entirely devoid of pity as she stood over them, looking down at her dying father with cold, detached indifference. "And even if there were... the reception doesn't reach the grave."
Thomas coughed, a thick spray of dark blood hitting Eleanor’s polished leather shoes, before his head slumped sideways against his shoulder, his eyes glazing over as they stared blankly at the floor.
Julian stepped backward, his hands covered in his father's blood, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as reality finally collapsed in around him.
"You planned this," Julian accused, pointing a shaking finger at Clara. "You manipulated us into bringing the gun down here. You wanted him dead."
Clara looked up, her pale blue eyes meeting her twin brother's with a terrifying, calculated calm.
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"I didn't pull the trigger, Julian," Clara whispered softly. "Mother did. Just like she pulled it on my childhood forty years ago."
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