Chapter 18 - The serpent's parlor
The silence inside Roman’s convoy on the ride back to the northern cliffs was suffocating. Arthur had been escorted into federal protective custody under the watchful eyes of Roman’s handpicked marshals, but Clara refused to leave Roman's side.
"You should have gone with your father," Roman said, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. "Julian didn't want to kill you on the courthouse steps. The sniper was a distraction to draw my security team away from the manor."
"He holds your people, Roman," Clara answered, her voice trembling slightly with anger, not fear. "He took the home where you gave me back my dignity. I am not running to a bunker while you walk into an execution chamber alone."
Roman glanced at her, the cold armor in his eyes softening for a fleeting second before turning into volcanic obsidian. "Julian wants to break me by taking what I love. He failed with your mother. He thinks you are the weak link."
"Let him try," she said.
When they arrived at the estate, the iron gates hung wide open, the security guards' booth abandoned. The manicured gardens were dead silent under the falling drizzle. Roman drew two semi-automatic weapons, handing Clara a small, silver-plated compact pistol.
"Safety off," he instructed quietly. "Aim for the throat or the center of the chest. Never hesitate."
Clara took the weapon, feeling its cold weight anchor her soul. "I won't."
They entered through the towering oak doors. The grand foyer was empty, but the sweet scent of expensive cigar smoke drifted from the formal library at the end of the hall. Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her boots never faltered on the marble floor as she walked side-by-side with the underworld king who had made her his queen.
They pushed the library doors open.
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Julian Vance sat in Roman’s leather high-back chair, looking at them like an emperor greeting peasants. He was in his late fifties, his face aristocratic yet twisted by a thin, jagged scar that ran from his ear to his collarbone—the exact mark Roman had carved a decade ago.
Behind Julian stood six mercenaries armed with submachine guns, their barrels trained on Roman’s chest.
