Chapter 3 - The Enforcer
Framed in the doorway stood Dennis, Victoria’s personal chauffeur and longtime family fixer. He was a broad-shouldered man in a dark trench coat, his face scarred and impassive, holding a silenced automatic pistol pointed directly at Julian’s chest.
“That’s far enough, Mr. Cole,” Dennis said in a low, gravelly voice.
The baby stirred against Hannah’s chest, letting out a soft, plaintive whimper. Hannah instantly dropped her chin, whispering frantic hushes against the infant's downy hair while backing toward the headboard, terrified that any stray bullet might tear through the frail life she was guarding.
Julian didn’t step back. He stood between Dennis’s gun and the bed, his dark suit absorbing the room's dim light. “You brought a gun into my home, Dennis? Around my son?”
“Dennis works for my father, Julian,” Victoria said, smoothing down the folds of her dress with hands that still trembled slightly. The panic on her face had vanished, replaced once more by the icy arrogance of dynastic wealth. “He always has. You’ve been home five minutes and you’ve completely ruined an arrangement that took months to organize. Hand over the documents, Julian. And give the child to Dennis.”
“Over my dead body,” Julian answered, his voice dropping into a dangerous monotone.
“That can easily be arranged,” Victoria said without blinking. “A tragic home invasion. A disturbed maid who murdered the master of the house before escaping into the night. It will be tidy. The press will mourn you, and I will raise the heir alone in peace.”
Hannah looked desperately around the bedroom. The window behind the bed was heavy glass, bolted shut. The adjacent bathroom door was slightly ajar. Dennis was focused entirely on Julian, calculating the distance, measuring the man’s stance.
“Victoria, you won't survive the investigation,” Julian warned, his fingers slowly edging toward the heavy marble bookend on the desk. “The staff downstairs—”
“The staff was dismissed at noon,” Victoria smiled coldly. “There is no one here. Just us. Dennis, take the baby.”
Dennis stepped forward, raising the barrel toward Julian’s head.
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In that split second, Hannah didn't scream. Instead, she reached blindly behind her onto the nightstand, grasped a heavy brass reading lamp by its cord, and hurled it with every ounce of remaining strength straight at Dennis’s face.
The heavy brass struck Dennis across the cheekbone. The gun went off—a muffled pop echoing through the room—and the bullet ripped through the velvet drapes just inches from Julian’s ear.
