Chapter 6 - Blood and Rust
The office inside the warehouse was furnished with relics of the 1980s: a water-damaged faux-wood desk, an olive-green filing cabinet with rusted drawers, and a sagging vinyl sofa that smelled of mildew.
Julian collapsed onto the sofa, burying his face in his dirt-caked palms. "How does Sterling Capital own everything? How is this possible?"
Hank tossed a greasy ledger onto the desk in front of Julian. "Because your old man wasn't stupid, boy. Arthur knew you were soft. He watched you grow up in private schools, wrecking sports cars and running through trust funds. Before he died, he sat right in that chair, had a glass of rye with me, and said, 'Hank, if Julian ever shows up here, it means he destroyed everything Eleanor tried to protect.'"
Julian looked up, his eyes burning with fury. "My father set this up? He planned for me to lose?"
"He planned for you to learn," Hank said, pulling a cold pot of black coffee from a hotplate and pouring it into two chipped ceramic mugs. He pushed one toward Julian. "Drink it. It tastes like battery acid, but it'll keep you awake. Your father left specific instructions. The tax lien can be paid off if this yard delivers five refurbished tugboat engines to the Corpus Christi port authority by the twenty-fifth. Contract value is two hundred thousand dollars."
Julian looked around the cavernous, shadowy warehouse. The floor was strewn with massive engine blocks, tangled hydraulic hoses, and pools of black grease.
"I don't know anything about tugboat engines!" Julian cried out, slamming his fist onto the sagging sofa. "I have an MBA in Luxury Brand Management from NYU!"
Hank snorted with laughter. "Well, you can tell that luxury degree to the county sheriff when he comes to padlock the gate on the thirty-first. There are three mechanics left in this yard who haven't quit because I pay them out of my own pension. We need a fourth pair of hands to turn wrenches, hoist pistons, and scrub grease out of intake manifolds. That's you."
Julian stared at the old man in disbelief. "You expect me to work as a grease monkey? In the mud?"
"No," Hank said, stepping closer and tapping the heavy iron spanner against Julian’s chest. "I expect you to quit. I expect you to run back to Miami, fall on your knees in front of your mother, and beg for an allowance like a beaten dog. That’s what your father thought you’d do. Eleanor bet Marcus Sterling fifty thousand dollars that you wouldn't last seventy-two hours in Port Arthur."
The mention of Marcus Sterling’s name sent a bolt of pure, violent adrenaline through Julian’s bloodstream. He remembered Brianna’s sneer. He remembered Marcus standing in his mother’s living room, holding his silver cane, claiming the life Julian thought was his.
"Where are the coveralls?" Julian asked through clenched teeth.
Hank’s weathered eyes narrowed. For the first time, the mockery faded from his expression, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity. He walked to a metal locker, pulled out a pair of stiff, oil-stained blue work overalls, and threw them onto Julian's lap.
"Shift starts at five in the morning," Hank said. "If you're one minute late, I lock you out myself."
Julian changed into the heavy denim. His hands, soft and pale, felt foreign inside the rough fabric. That night, as he lay on the mildewed sofa listening to the whistle of the Gulf wind through broken corrugated siding, his phone buzzed on the floor.
It was an Instagram alert from a friend’s public story.
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The image showed the Miami penthouse terrace at twilight. Brianna was there, dressed in a sparkling designer gown, standing beside Marcus Sterling as they toasted champagne glasses over the ocean. The caption read: New beginnings with the only man who ever truly knew how to conquer.
Julian clenched the phone until the glass cracked beneath his thumb.
