Chapter 6 - The Smoking Scalpel
Arthur didn't flinch. He signaled Vance with a subtle drop of his hand.
Julian Vance slipped into the darkness between the massive floor-to-ceiling wine racks, becoming one with the shadows. Arthur slowly stepped into the center of the vaulted stone room, his silhouette illuminated by the single flickering bulb hanging above the tasting table.
David Vance stepped down the last flight of stone stairs. He was dressed in a sharp charcoal Tom Ford suit, pristine and unbothered, flanked by two armed mercenaries carrying submachine guns equipped with suppressors.
"David," Arthur said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You look well for a dead man walking."
"Humor. How delightfully predictable, Arthur," David chuckled, stepping into the cellar light. "You always had that stubborn maritime spine. Your father had it too, right up until his heart gave out on that yacht off Monaco."
Arthur’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. "My father too?"
"Let's just say the Sterling men have a genetic predisposition toward untimely endings," David smiled thinly. "It’s a shame Evelyn lost her composure on the lawn. That little brat of yours really threw a wrench into the timeline. That fake belly was supposed to last another three weeks until the delivery in Newark. But... improvisation has always been my strong suit."
"Where is Dr. Morris?" Arthur asked, stalling, listening intently for the faintest rustle of Julian moving through the racks behind them.
"Dr. Morris is currently at our private airstrip in Teterboro, preparing our departure," David said, taking a step closer. "Along with your corporate seal, your digital passkeys, and the legal adoption documents for our new heir. Once you sign the emergency conservatorship papers, you’ll join Clara. A tragic suicide out of grief and scandal. 'The Disgraced Billionaire Who Couldn't Bear the Shame.' The press will eat it alive."
"You forgot one thing, David," Arthur murmured.
"Oh? And what is that?"
"Julian."
A sharp, muffled *phut-phut* hissed from the darkness behind the mercenary on David's right. The guard collapsed instantly onto the gravel floor without a sound. Before the second guard could raise his weapon, Julian Vance lunged from behind a row of 1945 Romanée-Conti barrels, driving a tactical blade upward into the mercenary's shoulder joint and disarming him with bone-cracking efficiency.
David Vance scrambled backward, pulling a small silver automatic pistol from his breast pocket. But Arthur was faster.
Fueled by months of grief, betrayal, and the sight of his dying daughter upstairs, Arthur closed the distance in two thunderous strides. He slammed his forearm across David’s throat, driving the lawyer’s head back against the solid stone wall. The pistol clattered to the dirt floor.
"You touched my daughter," Arthur snarled, his fingers digging deep into the soft tissue of David's neck, cutting off his oxygen. "You poisoned Clara. You brought a parasite into my house to desecrate her memory."
"Agh... Arthur..." David gagged, his face turning dark purple as he clawed at Arthur's iron grip. "You... you can't... the cartel... they'll slaughter you..."
"Julian," Arthur barked without breaking eye contact with the suffocating traitor. "Get his phone."
Julian stepped over the incapacitated mercenaries and reached into David’s jacket, pulling out a hardened satellite phone. Vance used David’s thumb to unlock the biometric screen.
"Arthur, look," Julian said, his voice laced with venom.
On the screen was an open encrypted chat with Dr. Morris. The last message sent two minutes ago read: *Cargo secured at Hangar 4. The biological sample taken from Clara Sterling’s pulmonary autopsy is in the cryogenic transport case. Ready to liquidate.*
Arthur’s eyes widened with horrifying comprehension. "Biological sample? What did they do to Clara?!"
"The poison... was experimental," David wheezed through his crushed trachea. "Morris... kept the tissue... to sell the synthetic compound... to the Voronin syndicate... It’s all... in the cloud vault... the evidence... everything..."
"Thank you," Arthur whispered.
May you like
With a brutal, calculated strike of his fist, Arthur drove his knuckles into David’s temple, knocking the lawyer unconscious onto the cold stone floor.
***
