Chapter 41: "The Bar Rescue" Julian POV

I’m in Tessa’s cramped room, my heart pounding as Sam’s voice—"They’ve got me at the bar!"—cuts off, leaving a thick silence heavy with panic. Marcus is frozen, staring at Tessa’s phone, and my chest is tight—Sam, my mate, caught because he stuck by me. Tessa’s already moving, grabbing her bag, saying, “We know that bar—off the Strip, where Victor was.” My hands ball into fists, and I’m on my feet, my voice rough. “Let’s go—now.” Marcus nods quickly, eyes wild, and I’m thinking—he’s with me, for once—and we’re out the door, piling into Tessa’s car. The engine roars as she peels away.

The drive’s quick—Vegas blurring past, neon lights streaking across the dark sky—and my stomach churns, scared for Sam and mad at Marcus still. He’s next to me, muttering, “We’ll get him, Jules,” but I don’t answer. I don’t trust him, not after the voucher, not after Sam’s grab. Tessa’s focused, weaving through traffic, saying, “Same dive where Victor shredded papers—five minutes.” My hands rub my legs—bruised, sore—and I’m picturing Sam, tied up, scared, and I’m praying—praying we’re not too late.

We hit the bar—dingy, a faded sign flickering—and Tessa parks sharply, cutting the lights. “Plan?” she asks in a low voice. I’m already out, boots hitting the gravel, saying, “Storm it—find him.” Marcus grabs my arm. “Jules, slow,” he says, but I shake him off, angry. “No—Sam’s in there because of us.” Tessa’s behind, nodding, and we move—quiet at first—toward the back door, the same one Marcus and she used before. My heart’s racing, and I’m thinking—Victor, Claire, their mess—and I’m ready, ready to fight.

The door’s unlocked, creaking as I push it open, and we’re in. The air’s thick with smoke, music low, a few drunks at the bar ignoring us. My eyes dart, searching the room, and I hear it—muffled yells, coming from the back room—and my stomach flips. “There,” I whisper, pointing, and we creep past tables, Marcus close behind me, Tessa checking corners. The door’s cracked open, the wood chipped, and I peek through, my breath catching. Sam’s there—tied to a chair, ropes tight, face pale—and Victor’s looming over him, big and mean, pacing with a phone to his ear.

My hands tremble, but I’m already moving—fast, shoving the door wide and shouting, “Let him go!” Victor spins, eyes narrowing, and I grab a beer bottle off a table, swinging it hard—not thinking, just acting. It smashes against his arm, glass flying, and he roars, dropping the phone and lunging at me. Marcus is in, tackling him low, and I’m on Sam, pulling at the ropes—rough, tight—yelling, “Hold on, mate!” Sam’s gasping, “Jules—quick!” and my fingers fumble, terrified—scared Victor’s going to win.

Victor shoves Marcus off, big hands swinging, and I’m up, bottle gone, fists ready. “You’re done!” I shout, my voice shaking, and he snarls, stepping back and wiping blood from his arm—my hit, my mark. “Claire’s the brains,” he says, his voice rough, mean. “This ends her way—family revenge, not some syndicate crap.” My chest tightens—he’s scaling it down, no big players, just Claire’s hate—and I’m thinking—that voucher, Ethan, her brother—it’s all her, driving this. Marcus grabs a chair, swinging it, and Victor ducks, laughing—dark and ugly.

I’m back at Sam, the ropes loosening, and he’s free—stumbling to his feet, shaky. “Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing my arm, and I nod quickly, pulling him toward Tessa at the door. Victor’s still fighting—Marcus dodging a punch—and I’m yelling, “Marcus, move!” My heart’s pounding, and I’m thinking—Claire’s plans, Victor’s muscle—we’ve got Sam, but it’s not over. Victor’s eyes lock on me, wild, and he growls, “You’re dead, Harrow—her list, her call,” and my skin crawls—her list? But I’m pushing Sam, keeping him safe.

Marcus swings again—the chair cracking on Victor’s shoulder—and Victor staggers, swearing loudly. “Out!” Tessa yells, waving us back, and I’m dragging Sam, Marcus behind me, through the bar—drunks staring now, music thudding. My legs burn, and I’m thinking—family revenge, Claire’s way—and it feels heavy, personal, sharper than some big conspiracy. We hit the back door, bursting into the alley, the cold air hitting hard—and I’m breathing fast, Sam leaning on me, safe but shaken.

I turn—Marcus panting, Tessa checking Sam—and Victor’s still inside, roaring something I can’t hear. My chest’s heaving, and I’m thinking—we’ve got him, got Sam—but then I hear it—footsteps, fast, crashing through the bar. “He’s coming!” Marcus shouts, and I spin, seeing Victor barreling out the back—big, bloody—and heading for a car parked crooked. My stomach drops, and I’m yelling, “Stop him!” but he’s already in, the door slamming, the engine revving loud.

Tires squeal—sharp, cutting through the night—and Victor’s gone, peeling out, disappearing down the alley into the dark. My hands ball into fists, and I freeze, watching the tail lights fade, shaken that he’s loose, still out there. Sam’s next to me, breathing hard, muttering, “Bloody hell,” and Marcus grabs my shoulder, saying, “We’ve got Sam, Jules—that’s something.” My throat’s tight—yeah, Sam’s free, but Victor’s escaped, Claire’s shadow still hanging over us—and I’m thinking—her way, her plans—and I’m scared, scared she’s not done yet.