Chapter 10 - THE BLOODLINE JUSTICE
Julian’s refined, sympathetic persona collapsed entirely. A cold, bitter sneer twisted his features as he backed up against the stainless-steel counter.
"You were never fit to lead the Mercer family, Lawson!" Julian spat, his voice tight with long-buried hatred. "Our father gave you the empire because you were the hammer! But I was the brain! Genevieve found out because she was too smart for her own good... and those two weak little bastards are half of her!"
Julian reached rapidly into his jacket pocket, drawing a compact snub-nosed revolver.
He was fast, but Lawson Mercer was a creature forged in the brutal fires of Chicago’s underworld.
Before Julian’s finger could clear the trigger guard, Lawson closed the distance in a fraction of a second. His large, tattooed hand clamped over Julian’s wrist like a vise, crushing the bone until the revolver clattered uselessly onto the tiled floor.
With a single, explosive movement, Lawson grabbed Julian by the throat, slamming him violently backward against the stainless-steel counter.
"You took my wife," Lawson growled, his face inches from his brother's, his dark eyes burning with an unholy, lethal rage. "And you tried to take my blood."
Lawson didn't pull his knife. He didn't fire a gun.
With methodical, terrifying precision, Lawson grabbed the needle of the discarded IV line filled with the raw, concentrated toxin from the counter, and drove it deep into Julian’s neck muscle, plunging the syringe empty in a single, fluid motion.
Julian gasped, his eyes widening in pure, horrifying shock as the compound hit his bloodstream.
Lawson released his grip, letting his half-brother collapse onto the cold white floor, gasping for air as the dark liquid began its rapid, irreversible work against his system.
Lawson didn't watch him die. He turned his back on his brother, walking calmly over to Blythe and Jonah’s gurneys.
He reached out his broad, calloused hands, gently brushing the soft dark hair away from his daughter's pale forehead, then taking his son's small hand in his own.
The door to the West Wing bay clicked open. Elena Ward stood in the threshold, accompanied by Prescott Hale. She looked at the scene on the floor, then looked at Lawson standing over his sleeping children.
"Is it over?" Elena asked softly, tears running down her cheeks.
Lawson looked up at her, the dark, lethal shadow in his eyes slowly dissolving, replaced by an absolute, profound vow of redemption.
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"It's over," Lawson said softly, his voice clear and strong for the first time in eighteen months. "Prescott... get the private pediatric team from Johns Hopkins on the line. Clean out the IV lines. My children are going to live."
Outside, the storm over Chicago began to clear, letting the first pale light of dawn break through the heavy clouds—as the Mercer family, forged through tragedy and saved by a promise, prepared to reclaim their future from the dark.
