Chapter 7 - The Reckoning of Julian Vance
Julian Vance was cornered seventy-two hours later in an abandoned private airstrip in upstate New York. His private jet was grounded by federal air marshals, but it wasn't the FBI that walked into the hangar first.
It was Dominic. And I was walking right beside him.
Julian stood beside his luggage, looking disheveled, his expensive Italian suit soaked with mud at the cuffs. When he saw me step into the light of the hangar lanterns, his face morphed from terror to contempt.
“Nora?” he stammered, stepping forward. “Nora, thank God. Look, you have to talk to him. Dominic Vale is an animal! You know me. We were going to build a life together!”
I stopped ten feet away from him, Dominic flanking me like a shadow carved out of obsidian.
“You stole four million dollars from your clients,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “You used my passwords. You let my mother read about my disgrace in the papers before she died. You let the entire industry call me a thief.”
“It was business, Nora!” Julian pleaded, sweating profusely. “I was going to come back for you! I panicked. But we can fix this. I have accounts in Zurich that aren't on the books. Twenty million. We can take it and leave together. You don't belong with a gangster like Vale. Look at him—he’s using you!”
Dominic didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even unclench his fists. He simply glanced at me. “Do you want him dead, Nora? Say the word, and he never leaves this airfield.”
Julian dropped to his knees, his face turning an ugly shade of gray. “Nora, please! Don't do this! You're a good person. You're better than this!”
I looked down at the man who had reduced my life to ashes, the man who had made me believe I was worthless, unlovable, and destined to remain invisible.
“I am better than this,” I said slowly. “Which is why you aren't going to die here.”
Julian let out a ragged sob of relief.
“You're going to federal prison, Julian,” I continued, my voice cutting through his pathetic tears. “I handed the Southern District every transaction you made from 2018 to last Tuesday. Every offshore shell, every kickback, every dime you stole from the pension funds. You are going to spend the next thirty-five years in a six-by-eight cell, wearing an orange jumpsuit that nobody tailored for you.”
I turned to Dominic. “Call the marshals. He’s boring me.”
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Julian screamed curses at my back as Dominic signaled his men to hold the perimeter until the feds arrived. But for the first time in two years, the words didn't even sting. They were just empty noise in the wind.
***
