Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Vault
Julian’s breath caught for half a second. His bedroom vault did not contain money; it held the master ledger of every crooked official, cartel boss, and federal informant that kept his syndicate afloat. If that room was breached or destroyed, his entire empire would collapse within forty-eight hours.
"How do you know that?" Julian demanded, setting her down gently onto the velvet cushions.
Clara closed her eyes, groaning in pain as she touched her swollen forearm. "Because Victoria made me carry the duffel bag up here yesterday morning. She told me it was replacement silver for the dining service... but I smelled the plastic explosive. When I asked questions, her brother held me down while she..." Clara choked on her words, tears spilling over her eyelashes.
A dark, volcanic rage ignited in Julian's chest. He unbuttoned his collar, letting the full breadth of his serpentine tattoo breathe. He called his head of security immediately.
"Evacuate the penthouse east wing. The charge is in the primary vault. Disarm team only—no civilians."
Ending the call, Julian walked over to the antique medical cabinet in the corner of his study. He retrieved antiseptic gauze, burn ointment, and sterile bandages. Returning to the couch, he knelt on one knee before Clara, setting the medical kit on the glass table.
"Give me your arm," he said softly.
Clara hesitated, shrinking back into the cushions. "You don't have to do this, Mr. Vance. I can manage."
"Hold still," he replied, his tone brooking no argument, yet surprisingly gentle. Taking her wrist in his firm grasp, he applied the cooling antiseptic to the charred flesh. Clara hissed in pain, her free hand clutching his tuxedo sleeve, digging her nails into the fabric.
"Breathe," Julian said, watching her face closely. "You're safe here."
As he wrapped the clean white gauze around her wound, Clara’s sleeve pulled up slightly higher, exposing an old, faded ink tattoo near the crook of her elbow—a double-headed raven clutching an iron dagger.
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Julian’s hands froze. His gaze snapped from the tattoo to Clara’s eyes.
"Where did you get this mark?" Julian asked, his voice suddenly thick with dread. "This belongs to the Morozov family... the Russian syndicate wiped out seven years ago."
