Chapter 4 - The Confession in the Dark
The words hung in the air between us like smoke from a dying fire.
I didn't kill your brother.
I stared up at Julian Vance, searching his face for the smallest twitch of deceit, the micro-expression of a liar trying to save his own skin. But his dark eyes were steady, unreadable, reflecting the amber glow of the table lamp without a single flicker of panic.
“You expect me to believe that?” I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Your signature is on the transfer documents. Your company cleared the funds. Your watch was on his wrist when they pulled him out of the harbor.”
Julian’s gaze flicked down to his left wrist, where the vintage Omega Seamaster sat with its cracked crystal catching the light. He didn't pull his cuff down to hide it. Instead, he reached up with his right hand and slowly unclasped the metal band, sliding the watch off his wrist and placing it on the mahogany table between us.
“It’s a nice watch,” Julian said quietly. “Good mechanical movement. Reliable. But I didn't take it off a corpse in the harbor.”
“Then where did you get it?” I demanded, stepping closer, ignoring the warning bells screaming in the back of my mind. “My father gave that to Leo on his twenty-first birthday. It was engraved on the back with his initials. L.R. Look at it!”
Julian didn't touch the watch. He looked down at it, a shadow crossing his face—a brief, dark flash of genuine frustration.
“I bought it three weeks ago at an estate auction in Evanston,” Julian said evenly. “Along with a dozen other luxury items liquidated from a corporate holding account managed by a man named Victor Vance—my cousin. The man who runs half the shipping docks in South Chicago while using my name as a shield.”
I froze. The name hit me like a physical blow. “Victor?”
“My family tree has roots that choked out anything decent a long time ago,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a harsh, cynical register. “Victor handles the logistics, the imports, the gray-market shipping. For years, I let him operate under the family umbrella because keeping your enemies close is standard procedure in my line of work. But three months ago, millions started disappearing from my corporate accounts through dummy shell companies.”
Julian reached down, picked up my diary, and tapped the cover against his palm.
“And according to your meticulous little book here,” Julian continued, his eyes locking onto mine, “your brother wasn't just tracking my accounts. He was tracking Victor’s. Leo discovered that my cousin was using Crimson Lounge as a front to launder cartel money behind my back. When Victor found out Leo was about to go to federal prosecutors, he didn't drown him in the harbor. He staged it to look like my hit squad did the job—specifically to force me into a war with the feds.”
The room seemed to tilt. Every assumption I had carried for the last six months—every tear I had shed into my pillow, every sleepless night spent plotting revenge against the master of the Crimson Lounge—dissolved into a terrifying, complicated reality.
I had been aiming at the wrong target the entire time.
“If what you’re saying is true,” I whispered, my voice shaking as the anger gave way to a hollow, freezing realization, “why haven't you killed Victor yourself?”
Julian let out a cold, humorless breath. “Because in my world, you don't just kill a family member without proof that satisfies the council. If I move against Victor without absolute, ironclad documentation of his treason, my own captains will think I’m purging rivals out of paranoia. It would start a civil war in Chicago.”
“And you think I have proof?”
“I think,” Julian said, stepping closer until I could smell the faint scent of cedarwood and bourbon on his skin, “you spent the last six months doing what my intelligence network failed to do: following the paper trail down to the exact bank accounts Victor uses to stash his personal slush fund.”
He held up my diary.
“You have the names. You have the routing numbers. And now,” Julian’s gaze darkened, a dangerous edge sharpening his tone, “you have a very good reason to want Victor dead as much as I do.”
May you like
Before I could answer, the heavy oak door of the mezzanine swung open with a loud bang.
Dante rushed in, his face pale, his hand gripping his weapon. “Boss! We’ve got a problem. Victor’s enforcers just breached the service entrance downstairs. They’re coming up the private stairs right now.”
