Chapter 7 - The Montreal Connection
Julian stared down at the vibrating phone on the floor, the harsh blue light cutting through the warm, amber glow of the chandeliers. The caller ID remained stubbornly fixed on UNKNOWN CALLER – CANADA, pulsing rhythmically like a digital heartbeat.
Eleanor slowly pushed herself up from the velvet chair, her knees trembling as she walked over to her son. She followed his terrified gaze down to the diamond-studded clutch. "Whose phone is that?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning.
"It's Elena's," Julian answered mechanically, his voice devoid of all emotion. He knelt down slowly, as if approaching a coiled snake, and reached out his hand. He picked up the heavy clutch and slid his fingers inside the satin lining, retrieving the glowing smartphone.
Without thinking, Julian swiped the screen to answer. He didn't say hello; he simply pressed the phone to his ear and waited, his chest heaving.
"Elena?" a deep, raspy male voice spoke through the speaker. The connection was plagued by static, as if the call was routing through multiple international servers. "Did they take her? Did the feds move in?"
Julian’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "She's gone," Julian said, his voice dropping into a harsh, dangerous whisper. "Who is this?"
A sharp intake of breath echoed on the other end of the line, followed by a low, dark chuckle that sent a shiver straight down Julian’s spine. "Ah. The groom. I wondered if you'd be the one answering. You found the letter, didn't you? You found out what your dear, departed father really did to my family thirty years ago."
"Identify yourself," Julian demanded, standing up straight as adrenaline surged through his veins, overriding the shock of the past twenty minutes.
"My name is Marcus Vance," the voice replied smoothly.
Julian stumbled back a step, the phone nearly slipping from his ear. "That's impossible. My uncle Marcus died in a fire thirty-two years ago. My father told me—the whole family was told he burned to death in the Montreal lab fire!"
"That’s what the official police report said, courtesy of your father and Arthur Moreau," Marcus’s voice hissed, dripping with decades of pure, unadulterated venom. "They needed a dead body to close the investigation after they stole my algorithms and framed me for corporate espionage. I didn't die in that fire, Julian. I spent the last three decades hiding in the shadows of Montreal, watching your father build an empire on the ashes of my life—and now, I’m finally coming home to collect what's mine."
The line clicked dead. A flat, mechanical dial tone buzzed in Julian’s ear.
He slowly lowered the phone, his mind reeling as the terrifying puzzle pieces snapped violently into place. His uncle Marcus wasn't dead. The man Elena’s family had supposedly framed and imprisoned in Canada wasn't a stranger—he was part of the very bloodline Julian thought he knew. And now, with the federal raid on Moreau Industries and the exposure of his father’s hidden confession, the floodgates had been blown wide open.
Eleanor grabbed Julian’s arm, her fingernails digging through the black fabric of his tuxedo jacket. "Julian! Who was on the phone? What did they say?"
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Julian turned to look at his mother, the horror in his eyes reflecting the dying lights of the banquet hall. "It wasn't a stranger, Mother," Julian whispered hoarsely. "It was Uncle Marcus. And he's coming here."
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