TO LATE TO BEG, SISTER

CHAPTER 7: A PATHETIC RETRIBUTION

"How dare you!" Tristan shrieked, hand to his swelling cheek. "I am Tristan Vance! Sole heir of the Vance family! One word from me and you and your whole crew are wiped off the map!"

Garrick spat on the floor between them.

"Legitimate son?" He laughed, and there was no mercy in it. "The Vances have gone blind. They threw away a pearl to pick up gravel like you. You don't even know who holds the power in this city, kid."

"Kill him!" Tristan turned to his six bodyguards. "Smash this thug and slaughter Julian!"

The guards raised their batons and charged. They got three steps. Garrick flicked a lazy, dismissive hand.

"Teach them."

A dozen East End hardcases moved like the weather. Impacts, snapping bone, screams—and the six luxury bodyguards were on the floor holding their stomachs.

Garrick took Tristan by the collar of his expensive suit, dragged him across the room like a sack, and forced him to his knees in front of Julian.

"Mr. Julian," he said, polite as a butler. "How would you like me to dispose of this garbage?"

Tristan shook. "J-Julian! Touch me and Sisters Victoria and Siska will destroy you!"

Julian looked down at him with nothing in his eyes at all. He reached out and closed his fingers around Tristan's right wrist, thumb pressing a nerve point with surgical patience.

Crack.

Tristan's scream went up an octave and stayed there. Fire ran to the marrow, then went cold, then went to nothing. His right hand hung at the end of his arm like a dead branch.

"That is your first warning," Julian said, and let go. "For the slander and the insults tonight. If there is a next time, it won't be only your hand."

"My hand!" Tristan sobbed on the floor, cradling it. "Give it back! My sisters will tear you to pieces!"

"Tell Victoria and Siska I'll be standing right here," Julian said. "Waiting for the Vance family's retaliation. Now get out."

They fled into the rain, the beaten guards half-carrying their howling young master.

When the last taillight was gone, Garrick's knees hit the tiles. He kowtowed, forehead to the cold floor, again and again.

"Mr. Julian, forgive me! I didn't know this orphanage was under your protection. Had I known, I would not have dared set foot here if it cost me my life!"

"Everyone in this building is under my protection," Julian said. "If one hair on my grandparents or these children is touched by your people again, your life and Boss Arthur's are the price."

"I promise! I promise!" Garrick scrambled up and barked at his men. "The case! Bring it!"

A thick black briefcase opened at Julian's feet: neat bricks of cash, one hundred thousand pounds.

"Compensation, sir. My apology for tonight. Please, show mercy and let us go."

Julian frowned. "I don't want dirty money. Give it to Grandma Margaret, for the repairs and the children."

"Yes, sir! Of course!" Garrick was visibly lighter. "From tonight, twenty of my best men guard this place day and night. No criminal in the East End will dare bother you again."

"Good. Go. And give Arthur Pendleton my message: keep your men in check, and stop collecting money the way he does."

"Delivered immediately, sir!" Garrick bowed, gathered his groaning men, and was gone.

When the gate had closed behind the last of them, Julian sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and let his head hang. The blood came then, a slow warm line from his nostril, and he let it come; there was nobody left to hide it from. Margaret appeared from the kitchen with a warm towel and a cup of soup. She didn't ask about the red on his lip. She just held the towel where he could see it, and waited. Some kinds of love are quiet like that.

Far away in Mayfair, the grand living room of the Vance estate had dissolved into wailing. Tristan lay across a leather sofa, face bruised, right hand dead at his side. His sisters gathered around him like a storm front.

"Tristan, darling, what happened?" Siska held his shoulders, eyes wet with fury. "Who did this?"

Tristan's tears came on demand and ran on cue. "Sister Siska… I went to beg Julian to return Sister Victoria's patents. And he—he tortured me instead!"

Siska made a sound like tearing metal. "I will have him in a cell by morning. No one touches this family and walks. I have never been wrong about a suspect, and I am not wrong now."

"He sent street thugs to beat me!" Tristan rasped. "And he laughed, sisters. He said all of Victoria's success was his work behind the scenes! He said Victoria knows nothing! He called our family—he called us a dumpster!"

Victoria, standing apart, elegant and cold, went very still.

"He said that?"

"Yes!" Tristan whimpered. "He insulted Siska too. Said she only climbed the ladder on his designs. Said we were ungrateful…."

"The ungrateful bastard is him," Siska hissed, fists shaking. "Garbage we took in and fed for ten years!"

Victoria bent and smoothed Tristan's hair, her touch gentle, her eyes not. "Tristan is the heir of this family, and an heir of this family does not lie. Julian always had a talent for twisting reality. Calm down, Tristan. I will handle this myself, and I will make him crawl to me and beg for mercy."

"But sister… my hand," Tristan whimpered, lifting the limp wrist. "It's numb. It feels shattered from the inside."

Siska whirled toward the staircase, where Karen had been standing quietly through the whole scene.

"Sister! Quickly—treat Tristan's hand!"

Victoria's voice came down like a gavel. "Examine it. Now."

Karen crossed the room without hurry. She took Tristan's limp wrist in both hands, cool and careful, the way she had held the hands of the dying. Her voice was soft, the voice that made families trust her.

"Shh. It's alright," she murmured, turning the wrist over with two fingers. "Pain is only information."

A pause. Her smile did not change, but something in her eyes went very quiet.

"This nerve was pressed by someone who knows exactly what he is doing," she said gently, as if commenting on the weather. "Someone very, very skilled."

For some reason, the room went quiet.

They took Tristan upstairs, all of them, the house swallowing the noise of them. When the living room had emptied, Victoria stayed behind. On the side table lay the old company ledgers she had ordered up from the archive an hour ago, in a panic she would never have named. She opened the first volume at random. In the margins, two handwritings: her own sharp slant, and a smaller, neater one that had corrected her figures for ten years. A hand she had never once asked about.

She closed the ledger. It was nothing. It had to be nothing.