Chapter 3 - The Prodigal's Smile
Julian stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe as if he had just dropped by for morning coffee. He wore an immaculate cashmere sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms free of scars. His blonde hair fell in soft waves across his forehead, and his smile—the bright, disarming smile of a university valedictorian—was entirely dead in his eyes.
"Julian," Damian breathed, the name catching in his throat.
"Surprised?" Julian pushed off the frame, stepping into the room. He didn’t even glance at Clara, who was shivering violently on the Persian rug. Instead, his gaze locked onto the crayon drawing on the desk. "Ah. The little artist. I told her purple was a bit aggressive, didn't I, Lily-bug?"
Lily buried her face deeper into her mother’s apron, her small shoulders shaking.
"You’ve been living in my house," Damian said, closing the distance between them with lethal, measured strides. "Using my men, terrorizing my staff, right under my nose."
"Your house?" Julian laughed, a bright, chilling sound. "Damian, this house was built on the blood of men our father murdered. You think you inherited an empire? You inherited a tomb. I just decided to redecorate."
"You threatened a child."
"I secured a perimeter," Julian corrected smoothly, his smile vanishing, replaced by a sudden, terrifying flash of pure venom. "You went soft, brother. You traded guns for legitimacy. You wanted to play the reformed businessman while the family bled out. Someone had to keep the wolves sharp. And Clara here... well, she was a convenient witness to things she shouldn't have seen in the private wing."
Damian didn’t hesitate. He crossed the remaining space between them in a blur, his hand shooting out to grab Julian by the collar of his expensive cashmere, slamming him hard against the oak bookshelf. Volumes of criminal law and ledgers crashed to the floor in a chaotic avalanche.
Julian didn't fight back. He only smiled, blood trickling from a split lip where his teeth had caught it.
"Go ahead," Julian whispered, his breath hot against Damian’s ear. "Break my neck. But before you do... ask yourself why I came back to the estate three months ago. It wasn't for Clara. And it wasn't for the money."
May you like
Damian’s grip tightened, his knuckles whitening. "Then what?"
"Our father didn't die of a heart attack, Damian," Julian whispered, the words dropping like lead weights into the silence. "I watched you bury him. But I was the one who handed him the glass."
