Chapter 7 - The Master of the HouseVictor Vance didn't laugh, but his eyes narrowed with sudden, sharp suspicion. He raised his left hand, signaling into the fog outside the open doors.
"Kill them," Victor commanded.
From the darkness of the driveway, six more armed men surged forward out of the mist, their weapons leveled at the doorway.
They didn't make it three steps.
A deafening roar echoed from the cliffside below the estate—not gunfire, but the heavy, unmistakable sound of synchronized vehicle engines cutting through the perimeter fence. Headlights blared through the fog, illuminating the courtyard in a blinding white glare. Three heavy black SUVs bearing the private insignia of the Marseille Syndicate—the real Marseille Syndicate, not the corporate shell Victor had tried to hijack—rammed through the front gates, cutting off the mercenaries' escape route.
Victor’s face drained of color. He spun around, looking toward the driveway. "No... that's impossible. The Marseille board voted to back me!"
"The Marseille board consists of twelve men," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the doorway of the east hall.
A tall, silver-haired man in an expensive gray overcoat stepped out, flanked by two armed capos. It was Don Salvatore, the patriarch of the European syndicate—a man the intelligence community believed had retired to a villa in Sicily five years ago.
Salvatore looked at Victor with absolute, bottomless contempt.
"They voted to back you, Victor, because you promised them a bloodless takeover," Salvatore said, walking slowly into the foyer. "They did not vote to slaughter innocent families or bring heat down on our entire shipping network with cheap parlor tricks and fake federal warrants."
Victor backed up a step, his hand dipping toward the pocket of his trench coat. "Salvatore... I can explain—"
"You can explain to the fishes in the Atlantic," Salvatore interrupted coldly.
Before Victor could draw his hidden derringer, Rex moved.
It wasn't a charge; it was a ghost-like blur. The Malinois didn't aim for the chest or the throat this time. With terrifying precision, Rex clamped his jaws around Victor’s wrist, crushing the bones with a sickening crack and sending the gun clattering across the marble floor.
Victor shrieked, dropping to his knees, clutching his mangled hand as blood pooled onto the pristine white stone.
Julian walked over, looking down at the broken man with the same expression he might give a broken pen tossed into a wastebasket.
"You wanted my empire, Victor," Julian said softly. "You wanted my house, my ports, my life. But you made one fundamental mistake."
Victor gasped for air, his face gray with shock and agony. "What... what mistake?"
"You forgot whose house this really is," Julian replied, gesturing slightly toward the stairs.
May you like
Elsie, still sitting comfortably on the landing, reached into the pocket of her frog pajamas, pulled out her broken green crayon stub, and solemnly drew an imaginary circle in the air toward Victor.
Julian turned away, walking toward Don Salvatore to discuss shipping manifests and asset recovery, leaving the broken corporate raider to the mercy of the house—and the dog.
Related Stories
