Chapter 4 - The Ghost at the Fountain
Julian descended the back staircase alone, leaving Clara and Eleanor trapped in their quiet standoff. The service corridor was cool and smelled of beeswax and lemon oil, a stark contrast to the perfumed warmth waiting in the ballroom.
He slipped through the side garden door into the autumn chill. The evening air stung his lungs, clearing the haze of panic that had clouded his mind.
Mateo Ortiz was leaning against the stone rim of the fountain, his hands tucked into his overcoat pockets. He was roughly sixty, with silver streaks running through thick black hair and deep laugh lines around eyes that carried very little laughter.
"Mr. Ortiz," Julian said, stepping into the gravel path.
Mateo did not flinch. He turned slowly, looking Julian up and down, from his Italian leather shoes to his diamond studs. "Julian Vance. You look remarkably like your father did when he was your age. He wore that same smirk whenever he was calculating what a man’s pride was worth."
Julian stopped three paces away. "I didn't invite you here to humiliate you."
"I know," Mateo said softly. "Your grandmother sent a car. She said the debt was mature. I thought she meant a check. She was always the clever one, Eleanor. But when I arrived, the driver didn't take me to a law office. He brought me to a party."
"There is no check that can fix thirty years of erasure," Julian admitted, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
May you like
Mateo laughed, a dry, coughing sound. "Look at you. Conceding defeat before the match begins. Your father would have had security drag me into the alley by my collar. What does Eleanor want from me, Julian? Blood, or theater?"
"The truth," Julian said. "And perhaps... an end."
