A vow of Violence

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Julian left Isolde's apartment building by the side exit, stepping out into the London drizzle. The city smelled of wet pavement and exhaust fumes-a sharp contrast to the jasmine and fear he had left behind in the penthouse.

He didn't call a car. He walked. He needed the cold air to cool the heat in his blood. Touching Isolde, smelling her, seeing the way her pupils dilated when he exerted dominance... it was a dangerous drug. He wanted to go back up there and finish what he started, to tear that dress the rest of the way down.

But he had work to do. And he had a tail.

He had sensed them three blocks back. Four men. Heavy footsteps. Poor discipline.

Julian turned into a narrow alleyway behind a row of high-end boutiques in Knightsbridge. It was a dead end. A trap. Or rather, a slaughterhouse of his own making.

He stopped near a dumpster, lit a cigarette, and waited.

The four men rounded the corner. They weren't security guards like the ones at the gala. These were street muscle-East End thugs paid to break legs and ask questions later. They wore leather jackets and held varied lengths of pipe and knives.

"Lost, mate?" the leader sneered, tapping a lead pipe against his palm. He had a gold tooth and eyes that were too close together.

Julian took a long drag of the cigarette, the ember glowing orange in the gloom. "Harrison really has lost his touch. Sending amateurs? It's insulting."

"Harrison paid us five grand to put you in a wheelchair," Gold Tooth grinned. "Easy money."

"Five grand?" Julian sighed, flicking the cigarette butt into a puddle. "I'm worth at least fifty."

The leader lunged.

Julian didn't step back. He stepped in.

The lead pipe swung down, aiming for Julian's skull. Julian caught the man's wrist mid-swing with his left hand, his grip crushing the radius bone. With a sickening snap, the pipe clattered to the floor.

Before the scream could leave the man's throat, Julian drove his right elbow into the man's nose. Cartilage shattered. The leader dropped like a sack of cement.

"One," Julian counted calmly.

The other three rushed him.

It was a dance of violence. Julian moved with the efficiency of a machine. He ducked under a knife slash, grabbed the attacker by the back of the neck, and rammed his face into the brick wall. Thud.

The third man tried to tackle him. Julian sidestepped, tripped him, and stomped on his knee. The joint bent the wrong way. The scream echoed off the wet walls.

The fourth man-the youngest, barely twenty-froze. He held a knife, his hand shaking.

Julian straightened his cuffs. He wasn't even out of breath. He walked toward the boy, who dropped the knife and backed away until he hit the dumpster.

"P-please," the boy stammered.

Julian stopped inches from him. "Go back to my brother. Tell him the price has gone up."

"W-what price?"

"The price of his life," Julian whispered. "Now run."

The boy scrambled away, slipping on the wet cobblestones in his haste to escape.

Julian checked his knuckles. A little bruised, but functional. He pulled out his phone.

"Kai," he said into the receiver. "Trash has been taken out. I'm coming to the safehouse. Make sure Jax is awake. We have a company to dismantle."