Chapter 18 - The Widow’s Last Gamble
Julian picked up his suppressed Sig Sauer from the floor, his boots crunching over the broken crystal glass as he approached the master bedroom.
He pushed the heavy double doors wide open, stepping into the luxurious suite he had shared with the woman who wanted him dead.
The room was dimly illuminated by the flickering amber glow of the gas fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the king-sized bed.
Rosalind was sitting on the edge of the mattress, wearing her delicate white silk robe, her dark hair falling in disarray over her shoulders.
She had stopped crying; her face was pale, composed, and set into a mask of heartbreaking, statuesque vulnerability as she looked up at him.
In her right hand, resting limply on her lap, she held a small, silver .22 caliber Derringer pistol she had taken from her vanity.
“You killed him,” Rosalind said softly, her voice lacking any trace of the screaming terror she had displayed in the gallery moments ago.
“He was a weak, paranoid coward, Rosalind,” Julian replied calmly, stopping ten feet away from her with his weapon lowered at his side.
“He thought he could conquer a city with a spreadsheet and a car bomb.”
Rosalind slowly dropped the silver Derringer onto the carpet at her feet, raising her empty hands to show she was completely defenseless.
She stood up from the bed, taking two slow, graceful steps toward him, the silk robe parting slightly to reveal her smooth olive skin.
“You know who I am, don't you, Julian?” she whispered, her large brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she looked into his face.
“You are Rosa Vane,” Julian stated without emotion. “The daughter of the man I shot twice in the chest at the Brooklyn Navy Yard five years ago.”
A sad, wistful smile touched her lips as she closed the remaining distance between them, stopping close enough for him to smell her lavender perfume.
“I spent three years hating you, Julian,” she murmured, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the fabric of his black cashmere coat.
“I underwent surgery, I learned your habits, and I swore on my father's grave that I would watch you burn alive inside this house.”
Her hand slid upward, resting gently against his chest directly over the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart.
“But the hardest part of the mission wasn't lying to you, my love,” she whispered, a single tear falling down her beautiful cheek.
“The hardest part was realizing that I had fallen completely, desperately in love with the monster who killed my father.”
Julian looked down at her, his mind analyzing the brilliant, terrifying performance playing out before him in the firelight.
She was using the ultimate weapon in her arsenal—her beauty, her vulnerability, and the lingering echoes of his affection—to buy her survival.
She leaned up on her tiptoes, her parted lips moving toward his mouth as her left hand slid secretly toward the pocket of his overcoat.
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She wasn't trying to kiss him; she was reaching for the secondary tactical knife he always carried concealed inside his left lapel.
Before her fingers could touch the handle of the blade, Julian caught her wrist with a grip of solid iron, stopping her completely cold.
