Chapter 8 - The Judgment
Julian fell to his knees in the puddles of dirty rainwater, weeping hysterically, clutching his hands together in a desperate plea for mercy.
“Vincent! Please! I was desperate!” Julian screamed, his voice echoed off the metal containers. “They were going to kill me! The Canadians were going to put a bullet in my head! I had no choice!”
Vincent stopped three feet in front of him. He raised the silenced pistol, pointing it directly at the center of Julian’s forehead.
“You had a choice to come to me, Julian,” Vincent said, his tone colder than the December rain. “You had a choice to ask your family for help. Instead, you put poison in the tea of the woman who raised you after your father died.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Julian sobbed, pressing his forehead against Vincent’s mud-stained leather boots. “Please, Vincent! We’re blood! You can’t kill your own blood!”
I couldn't watch any longer.
Ignoring Marco’s explicit instructions, I grabbed the door handle of the SUV, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped out into the freezing rain.
“Clara! No!” Marco yelled, reaching for me, but I was already running across the wet asphalt.
My scrubs were instantly soaked by the downpour, the cold wind cutting through my clothes like knives. I ran right past the armed guards until I was standing ten feet from Vincent.
“Vincent! Stop!” I shouted over the sound of the wind.
Vincent didn't lower the gun, but his eyes shifted sideways to look at me, a flash of genuine surprise passing through his dark gaze.
“Clara, I told you to stay in the car,” he said coldly.
“I don't care what you told me!” I yelled, taking three more steps forward until I was standing between the barrel of his gun and Julian’s trembling body. “Look at him, Vincent! He’s a broken, pathetic coward! He’s not a rival, he’s a child who ruined his own life!”
“He tried to murder my grandmother, Clara!” Vincent roared, his control finally snapping, his voice thunderous against the storm. “He doesn't get to live after that!”
“If you pull that trigger right now,” I shouted back, stepping right up to Vincent, placing my hand directly over the barrel of his gun and pushing it downward, “you tear this family apart forever. You give the police a reason to put you in a cage, you ruin everything Eleanor built, and you prove to everyone that Julian was right—that you’re nothing but a killer!”
Vincent stared at me. His breathing was heavy, ragged, his broad chest heaving beneath his wet wool coat.
My hand was wrapped around the cold steel of the gun. I could feel the intense, vibrating tension in his arms, the lethal impulse straining against his iron self-control.
“Eleanor is alive, Vincent,” I whispered softly, stepping closer to him, my voice softening. “She’s alive because we saved her. Don't let Julian take your soul too.”
For five excruciating seconds, the only sound on the docks was the howling wind and the patter of rain against the shipping containers.
Slowly, agonizingly, Vincent’s grip on the weapon relaxed.
He lowered the gun to his side.
Julian let out a ragged, gasping sob of relief, collapsing flat onto his face in the mud.
Vincent looked down at his cousin with supreme, absolute disgust.
“Marco,” Vincent said.
Marco stepped forward instantly. “Yes, boss?”
“Put Julian in the basement with Dr. Hale,” Vincent ordered flatly. “Strip him of every asset, every bank account, every car, and every square foot of real estate bearing the Vale name. When my grandmother wakes up tomorrow, she will sign the paperwork excommunicating him from this family permanently.”
Vincent looked back at Julian.
“You are dead to us, Julian,” Vincent whispered. “If I ever hear your name spoken in this city again, I won't need a gun. I’ll let Marco handle you.”
Marco and two guards grabbed Julian by his arms, dragging him kicking and screaming toward the back of one of the SUVs.
Vincent turned to face me. He stood under the harsh floodlight, drenched in rain, looking down at my soaked scrubs and shivering frame.
Without saying a word, he unbuttoned his heavy wool overcoat, pulled it off his broad shoulders, and wrapped it carefully around my shivering body.
“You’re an idiot, Clara,” Vincent murmured gently, his fingers brushing a wet strand of hair away from my face.
“I’m a nurse,” I replied, pulling the warm coat tight around myself. “We’re trained to save lives, even the ones that don't deserve it.”
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Vincent looked at me with a look I had never seen in his eyes before—a mixture of profound respect, intense curiosity, and something far softer than violence.
“Come on,” Vincent said, taking my hand in his massive warm palm. “Let's go home.”
