Chapter 5 - The Red Dot in the Dark
The heavy mahogany door of the private study slammed shut behind Julian, cutting off the muffled roar of the ballroom guests. The room smelled faintly of old leather, cedarwood, and the expensive pipe tobacco his father used to smoke on rainy evenings. Moonlight streamed through the tall French windows, casting long, ghostly shadows across the Persian rug.
Marcus slipped into the room right behind Julian, locking the heavy brass latch with a sharp click.
“Keep your voice down,” Marcus warned, his breathing ragged. “If she has backup outside, we are sitting ducks.”
Julian didn’t answer. His hands were shaking as he gripped the bottom corners of the heavy oil painting of his father. With a sharp tug, he swung the canvas outward on its hidden hinges, revealing the heavy steel face of the wall safe embedded deep into the brickwork. The digital keypad was dark. Julian’s fingers hovered over the rubber buttons, his mind racing through the possible combinations.
“You don’t need the keypad, Dad,” a small voice whispered from the doorway.
Julian spun around. Leo stood in the threshold, still holding his smartphone. The boy walked over to the side of the desk, reached behind a stack of law books, and pulled out a small, old-fashioned brass key.
“Grandpa gave this to me,” Leo said softly, handing the key to his father. “He told me to keep it safe until I was old enough to understand why people smile when they hate you.”
Julian stared down at the key in his palm, a heavy sob tearing its way out of his throat. He inserted the key into the small master lock hidden beneath the keypad, turned it, and spun the heavy steel dial twice. With a satisfying mechanical clack, the heavy door swung open.
Inside sat three thick manila folders, a velvet jewelry box, and a small, vintage microcassette recorder with a blinking red light.
Julian reached inside, his fingers brushing past the folders to pull out the recorder. He pressed the playback button with a trembling thumb. A scratchy, familiar voice filled the silent study. It was his father, speaking with labored breath.
“If you’re listening to this, Julian, it means my tea didn't agree with me. Clara has been mixing—*khal*—something sweet into—”
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Before the sentence could finish, the sound of shattered glass exploded from the French windows. Marcus lunged forward, tackling Julian to the floor just as a high-velocity bullet tore through the air, embedding itself deep into the brick wall right where Julian’s head had been a second before.
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