Chapter 6 - The Weight of the Brass
The impact made a sound like a wet watermelon hitting a sidewalk.
Doyle let out a wet, choked roar, his hand flying to his face as blood erupted over his knuckles and his dark tweed jacket. The heavy suppressed pistol slipped from his fingers, falling onto the runner rug with a soft thump.
"Julian!" Sadie screamed at the top of her lungs.
She didn't wait to see if Doyle was down. She grabbed the black pistol off the floor, scrambled on her knees through the double doors, and threw herself onto the drawing-room carpet just as a shot rang out.
PLINK.
The bullet didn't come from Doyle. It came from Vance.
A tiny, silver two-shot Derringer clicked in Vance’s hand, the small lead slug tearing through the velvet curtain three inches from Julian’s ear.
Julian didn't hesitate.
He didn't fire his gun.
He stepped forward, his heavy leather shoe coming down on Vance’s wrist with a sharp, sickening CRACK.
Vance screamed, dropping the small silver gun onto the rug, his knees giving way as he collapsed onto the floor, clutching his broken hand against his camel-hair coat.
Julian didn't look at him.
He turned toward the doorway, his gray eyes wide, his dark revolver raised as he stepped between Sadie and the hall.
"Sadie!" he roared.
Sadie was sitting on the rug, her flannel pajamas covered in dust, holding the heavy suppressed pistol in both hands. Her arms were shaking so violently the long black barrel was making small circles in the moonlight.
"Doyle," she gasped, her voice cracking. "Doyle’s... Doyle’s in the hall."
Doyle stepped into the moonlight.
His face was a disaster of dark red blood and shattered cartilage. His eyes were small, red, and swimming with an insane, murderous rage as he looked at the thirty-one-year-old housekeeper who had just broken his face with an office accessory.
"You little bitch," Doyle growled, taking a heavy, limping step toward her.
Julian stepped into his line of sight.
He didn't raise his revolver. He simply brought his left fist around in a short, devastating arc that caught Doyle directly under the jawline.
The sound was like a sledgehammer hitting an oak post.
Doyle’s eyes rolled back into his head. His six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-forty-pound frame went completely limp, his body crashing onto the drawing-room floor with a heavy, final THUD that shook the glass droplets on the chandelier overhead.
Silence returned to the room.
The rain outside drummed against the glass.
The Garrard turntable continued to spin on its wooden stand, the needle clicking uselessly against the blank end-groove of the vinyl record.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Julian stood over Doyle’s unconscious body for three long seconds, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths.
Then he slowly turned toward Sadie.
He looked down at her—sitting on the floor in her red flannel pajamas, her hair wild, her dark eyes wide as saucers, holding a silenced pistol that looked twice too big for her small hands.
"Sadie," he said softly.
Sadie swallowed. "Yes, Mr. Corsini?"
Julian lowered his revolver. He walked over to her, knelt down on the rug, and gently took the heavy black gun from her fingers. He set both weapons down on a nearby side table.
Then he reached out, took her face in his broad hands, and looked into her eyes with an intensity that made her blood feel like liquid fire.
"That," Julian whispered, his gray eyes dark and wet in the moonlight, "was an exceptionally dramatic entrance."
Sadie let out a short, hysterical sob that turned into a laugh halfway through her throat.
"I... I ruined the carpet," she whispered, pointing toward the blood dripping from Doyle’s nose onto the white wool rug.
May you like
Julian smiled—a real, broad smile that showed his white teeth and lit up his quiet face until he looked five years younger than his forty-six years.
"The carpet," Julian murmured, his thumb skittering softly across her cheekbone, "can be replaced. My housekeeper, apparently, cannot."
