Chapter 81 - The Resurrected Sovereign
The wind screamed across the helipad atop Vanguard Tower, whipping freezing rain against my face as the twin turbines of the Sikorsky roared to deafening pitch. But the howling gale was nothing compared to the roaring void that opened in my chest.
Arthur Vance.
The architect of the dynasty. The man whose supposed death in Geneva three years ago had triggered the bloodbath, the betrayal, and the ruthless exile that nearly buried me and my four babies in the gutter. He stood inside the cabin of the black transport, leaning casually on his gold-tipped ivory cane, looking down at us not as a father or a grandfather, but as a monarch inspecting vermin.
Beside me, Alexander did not fire. His knuckles were bone-white against the grip of his tactical rifle, his broad shoulders rigid as stone. "You orchestrated Geneva," Alexander said through gritted teeth, his voice barely carrying over the rotor wash. "The private jet explosion over Lake Geneva... the charred remains... you staged it all."
Arthur’s laugh was low, dry, and aristocratic. "A necessary theater, Alexander. An empire grown fat on peace inevitably rots from within. I needed to see who possessed the fangs to hold my throne, and who was merely a parasite feeding on my marrow."
His icy gaze shifted dismissively from Alexander to Tristan, who was still kneeling in the puddle of rainwater and motor oil, trembling violently. Tristan reached up toward the open cabin door, desperately thrusting the brass-locked sovereign ledger into the light.
"Father!" Tristan cried out, his voice cracking like that of a terrified boy. "I kept it! I stole the master ledger from her! I held Vanguard Tower until your arrival! Take me with you! Please, Father, don't leave me with her!"
Arthur Vance looked down at Tristan. There was no warmth in those pale, serpentine eyes. No paternal mercy. Only a cold, clinical disgust.
"You are no son of mine, Tristan," Arthur said softly, every syllable sharp enough to sever bone. "You are merely Eleanor’s bastard mistake, raised on unearned luxury. You couldn't even defeat a discarded woman and her four children. You allowed a woman you bought out for twelve million dollars to strip you of your title, your tower, and your pride."
Arthur reached out with his gloved left hand and snatched the brass-bound ledger from Tristan’s trembling grasp.
"Father—no! Please!" Tristan shrieked, clawing at the skid of the aircraft.
Arthur’s gold-tipped cane shot forward with blinding speed, striking Tristan squarely across the jaw with a sickening crack. Tristan crumpled backward onto the rain-slicked asphalt, blood bursting from his mouth, howling in agony.
Inside the cabin behind Arthur, Eleanor Vance was huddled on the leather bench, her designer gown torn, her makeup smeared into a grotesque mask of hysterical terror. "You're dead..." she sobbed, clawing at the cabin walls like a caged animal. "I watched the coffin lower into the earth! You can't be here!"
"Silence, Eleanor," Arthur said without even turning his head. "Your punishment will be measured in decades."
The heavy sliding door of the helicopter began to slam shut.
"Arthur!" I shouted, stepping forward through the downdraft, my handgun raised with both hands, the crosshairs locked on the reinforced glass. "You touch one hair on my children's heads, and I will tear down every stone you ever built!"
Through the tinted glass, Arthur Vance smiled a cold, predatory smile. He pressed a silver radio to his lips.
"The children are mine, Katherine," his voice crackled through my earpiece, hacking directly into our encrypted frequency. "They are the only true blood left. And an empire must have worthy sacrifices."
May you like
The helicopter lurched upward into the stormy London night, banking sharply over the Thames and vanishing into the low-hanging thunderclouds.
***
