Chapter 518 The Call
Julian’s POV
Marcus called just after nine. I was still in the study with the lights low and the door half closed so Katia could rest if she wanted to. She was sitting on the arm of my chair when the phone lit up, her hand resting on my shoulder the way it always did when she could tell something was about to shift. I answered on the second ring.
“I have him,” Marcus said. No greeting. “Hotel on 47th. Room 814. He checked in under Davies two hours ago. Alone. No movement since.”
I looked at Katia. She was already watching my face. “Send me the address. Do not go in until I get there.”
“Understood.”
I ended the call and set the phone on the desk. Katia did not ask what he had said. She already knew. I turned in the chair so I could see her properly.
“I am going to handle it,” I said.
She nodded once. “I want to know when it is done.”
I stood and kissed her, slower than I usually did when I was leaving the house for something like this. Her hand stayed on the back of my neck for a second longer than necessary. Then she let me go. I took the keys from the bowl by the door, locked the house behind me, and drove to the hotel alone.
The building was the kind of place that charged too much for rooms that still smelled like old carpet and cleaner. I parked across the street and sat for a minute with the engine off, watching the entrance. Marcus was already in the lobby when I walked in. He fell into step beside me without speaking and handed me a key card for the service elevator. We rode up in silence. On the eighth floor he stopped at the end of the hall and nodded toward the door marked 814.
“He has not left,” Marcus said. “No one else inside.”
“Stay out here.”
I used the master key Marcus had already arranged and stepped inside. The room was dim. Jude was sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand, still wearing the same shirt he had been wearing when he ran out of Gail’s house. He looked up when the door opened. For half a second he did not move. Then he stood so fast the phone hit the floor.
“Julian—”
I crossed the room before he finished the name. My fist caught him under the jaw and sent him backward into the nightstand. The lamp crashed. He tried to get his hands up. I hit him again, harder, and felt something give under my knuckles. Blood spilled from his nose and ran down his mouth. He swung once and missed.
I drove my knee into his stomach and watched him fold. When he dropped to his knees, I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the edge of the dresser. The sound was sharp. Blood smeared across the wood.
He was still conscious when I pulled him up. That was intentional. I wanted him awake for all of it.
“You sat at my sister’s table,” I said. My voice stayed low. “You ate her food. You looked at her like you belonged there. Then you ran when you saw me.”
He spat blood onto the carpet and tried to speak. I hit him in the ribs until the words stopped. He went down again. I followed him. My boot caught him on the side, and he curled, choking. I stayed over him and kept going. Face. Ribs. Face again. Every time he tried to cover his head I moved to something else. He begged once. I did not answer. I dragged him up by the collar and threw him into the wall hard enough that the picture frame above the bed shook loose and hit the floor. He slid down and left a streak of blood on the paint.
I crouched in front of him so he had to look at me. His left eye was already swelling shut. Blood ran from his mouth and nose and dripped onto the carpet between us. I grabbed his wrist and twisted until I felt the joint strain. He screamed. I held it there and leaned closer.
“You tried to take my wife’s company,” I said. “You lied to my sister. You sat in her house and smiled at her while you planned to use her. Tell me you understand why I am doing this.”
He could barely form words. I twisted harder until something popped. Then I let go and drove my fist into his face again. His head snapped back. More blood. I stood and kicked him in the ribs twice, hard enough that he coughed and more blood hit the carpet. He tried to crawl. I put my boot on his back and held him down while I spoke.
“You do not get to run from this family and hide in a cheap hotel. You do not get to touch anything that belongs to us and walk away. Every time you look in a mirror from now on, you are going to remember what happens when someone comes for my wife. For my sister. For my son.”
I lifted my boot and hit him again, open-handed this time, across the face, then closed my fist and went back to the ribs. He stopped trying to crawl. He just lay there making wet, broken sounds. I kept going until my knuckles were split and my shirt was sticky and the room smelled like blood and sweat. When I finally stepped back, he was still breathing, barely. That was the point.
I wiped my hand on my shirt and opened the door. Marcus was still in the hallway. He looked at my face, then past me into the room, and did not ask questions.
“He is still breathing,” I said. “Call the number. Tell them to clean it. I do not want him dead. I want him to remember this every time he tries to open his mouth.”
Marcus nodded and pulled out his phone. I walked past him toward the elevator. My knuckles were split and sticky. I flexed my hand once in the elevator and watched the blood smear across my skin. By the time I reached the car, I had already decided I would tell Katia it was finished before I washed any of it off. She had asked to know. She deserved to hear it from me while the proof was still on my hands.