Chapter 23 - A Father's Knees
For thirty-five years, Vincent Vance had knelt to no living soul.
He had stood before congressional committees without flinching. He had faced down hostile takeovers by international cartels without yielding an inch of ground. In the elite circles of global wealth, Vincent was known as an immovable pillar of ruthless pride.
He looked at the red dot wavering on his son's forehead.
Without a second's hesitation, Vincent unholstered his Glock, turned it grip-first, and dropped it into the shallow pool of rainwater and kerosene pooling near his boots. The metal splashed dully.
"Now," Julian purred, savoring every microsecond of the humiliation. "On your knees. Let the boy see what his invincible father really is."
Vincent took a slow, deliberate breath. His knees hit the freezing concrete with a hollow thud.
Leo gasped, pulling at the zip-ties. "Papa, no! Get up!"
"I'm okay, Leo," Vincent said, keeping his eyes locked onto his son, refusing to let the boy see fear. "I am right here."
Julian walked forward until the polished toe of his leather shoe was inches from Vincent’s knee. He rested the cold barrel of the revolver against the crown of Vincent’s head, forcing Vincent's gaze upward.
"Do you remember what you told my father when you liquidated his logistics company five years ago?" Julian whispered, his face inches from Vincent's, eyes blazing with generational malice. "You told him that weakness is a disease, and bankruptcy is the cure. My father hung himself from the rafters of his warehouse three days later."
"Your father embezzled eighty million dollars from employee pensions," Vincent replied coldly, staring directly into the muzzle of the gun. "He was a thief."
"He was my father!" Julian roared, smashing the butt of the revolver across Vincent’s jaw.
The blow cracked through the cavernous hangar. Vincent’s head snapped to the side, a thick spray of crimson painting the concrete floor. He didn't cry out. He simply absorbed the impact, tasted the copper on his tongue, and slowly turned his head back, his eyes burning with lethal indifference.
"You want my life, Julian?" Vincent spat out a tooth, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Take it. Put the bullet through my brain right now. But cut the boy loose. Marcus is outside. The documents are signed. You get the trust, you get the Vance shell corporations, you get everything your family lost ten times over. Let Leo walk out the door."
Julian smirked, running his fingers through his hair. "Oh, Vincent. You think this is about money? Money is cheap. I want you to feel what my father felt. I want you to feel the total, irredeemable loss of everything that gives your breath meaning."
Julian turned back to Elena, gesturing with the gun. "Elena, darling. The remote. Let’s show Anna what happens when she sends her white knight to do a butcher's job."
"Wait!" a voice cut through the shadows.
From the rain-slicked threshold of the hangar entrance, the heavy iron side-door creaked open.
Anna stepped into the light.
Her emerald dress was soaked, clinging to her frame, her hair plastered to her neck. In her right hand, she held the titanium drive Vincent had left in the car. In her left, she held a flare gun taken from the emergency kit of the Maybach.
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"You touch that detonator, Elena," Anna said, her voice clear, vibrating with absolute, sovereign authority, "and I fire this flare straight into the open fuel drainage trench behind you. We all burn together."
***
