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The rain in London didn't just fall; it just punished. It turned the cobblestone of the shipping district into slick, black mirrors, reflecting the neon sind in the city. Inside Warehouse 42, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and old oil.
Julian Vane was on his knees. His breath came in ragged white plumes in the freezing air. His hands were bound behind his back with zip ties that bit into his wrists, a sharp reminder that his life no longer belonged to him.
"Your father was a man of many vices, Julian," a voice echoed, smooth as aged bourbon and just as intoxicating. "But his greatest mistake wasn't the gambling. It was thinking I wouldn't come to collect."
From the shadows stepped Dominic Vance. He looked less like a criminal and more like a god of industry-clad in a bespoke charcoal suit, his coat draped over his shoulder s like a shroud. He stopped inches away from Julian, the tip of his polished Oxford shoes touching Julian's trembling knees.
Dominic reached down, his glove fingers tilting Julian's chin upward. Julian's blue eyes were wide, brimming with a mixture of terror and a strange, haunting familiarity.
"I don't have the money," Julian whispered, his voice breaking. " Kill me and be done with it."
Dominic's lips curled into a ghost of a smile-cold, predatory, and devastatingly beautiful. " Kill you? No, Julian. Dead men can't provide company.You aren't the payment. You are the interest. And I intend to keep you for a very, very long time."