My Brother Mocked Me for Being Single at Thanksgiving, Calling Me the Family Failure—Then My Gorgeous Wife Walked In Holding Our Baby, and His Smirk Disappeared. / Chapter 67 / 101

Chapter 67 - The Cold Hand of Succession

"You don't care about the Harrington legacy," I said, taking a slow, calculated step forward, my boots splashing through the pool of fuel and rainwater beneath the stairwell. "You care about the offshore clearance codes. Marcus never trusted you with the master encryption. He knew you were skimming from the Geneva accounts for three decades."

Alistair Vance’s mask of aristocratic calm slipped for a fraction of a second, his thin lips tightening into a pale line.

"Your father was a paranoid drunk," Vance hissed, the cold wind whipping his silver hair across his forehead. "He built a fortune on the backs of men who did the wet work while he sat in Beacon Hill sipping scotch! He promised the Vance lineage thirty percent of the offshore syndicate. Instead, he locked it behind a biometric genetic trust that requires the blood of an unbroken male heir!"

"So you used Jason," Emily spat, her weapon never wavering an inch from Vance's eye. "You fed his ego, baited his jealousy, and promised him he’d be the patriarch, knowing all along that his legal status was worthless under the Marseille covenant!"

"Jason was an idiot who couldn't see past his own vanity," Vance said without remorse. "He was so desperate to prove he was better than Brian that he signed every power-of-attorney document I put in front of him. But Jason’s branch was severed by Marcus's final amendment. Only this child—the direct legitimate descendant born of a verified covenant marriage—can unlock the Zurich vaults."

Vance rested his gloved thumb on a small digital receiver mounted to the top of the bassinet. A red LED blinked rhythmically against the clear canopy.

"Now, we come to the terms," Vance announced, looking down at us like a judge passing sentence. "The titanium plate. Throw it onto the stairs."

I held the heavy metal ledger in my left hand. Its edges were cold, cutting into my palm.

"And my son?" I demanded.

"The jet departs with me and the child," Vance said calmly. "Once we touch down in Grand Cayman and the assets are liquidated into the trust account, the boy will be placed with a private boarding family in Zurich. He will live a life of immense luxury. You, however, will never see him again."

"Not happening," I whispered.

Vance sneered. "You have no leverage, Brian. You are a civilian playing soldier. Drop the plate, or the seal on this pod pops, and the gas floods his lungs before your tactical team can climb three steps."

I glanced sideways at Emily. In the faint strobe of the helicopter lights behind us, her eyes gave the slightest flicker toward the jet’s open luggage bay directly below the passenger door.

There was no sound, but the hatch was cracked three inches.