Page 15 of Fire and Silk
I lift a hand lazily. “Let him beat me if it makes him feel better,” I say, voice soft and mock-wounded. “After all,nothing is stronger than a brother’s love.”
Maksim’s nostrils flare. His entire body looks like it’s vibrating with barely checked fury.
“You slinky snake,” he hisses. “You did this. You had them stall my shipments at the port so you could supply my partner first.”
My face stays a perfect mask of shock, but inside?
Of course I did.
Three days ago, I sent a man to the port authority with a sealed letter claiming Maksim had been underreporting profits. That he was shortchanging the port by nearly seventeen percent over two quarters.
I attached evidence—fabricated, but precise.
Then I sent a bag of gold.
Old-school. Heavy. Delivered in velvet.
Nothing sweetens an insult like nostalgia and profit.
Now his shipments are “under audit” and mine have rolled out like silk across the docks, bound for the same partner. With my seal.
I blink slowly at him. “You wound me.”
“This won’t stop me,” Maksim spits, stepping around Matteo now, pacing like a caged animal. “You think one petty actof sabotage makes you clever? I’m still coming for what’s truly mine.”
I tilt my head. “And what might that be?”
“Everything,” he snaps. “Everything you have—every corner of this house, every contact, every shipment. It's mine. And I amcomingfor it.”
This war started the day my father died.
Maksim was the first son. Born of the first marriage, proper, public. Groomed for succession. Polished like a blade meant to hang above everyone’s heads. Our father paraded him around like a dynasty in a schoolboy uniform.
And me?
Second wife. Second son. Private, inconvenient. Born with the wrong timing and much of the wrong woman’s fire in my blood.
But I waited.
The day our father’s heart gave out, Maksim wasn’t even on the continent.
Because I’d sent him to Canada.
A fabricated meeting. A forged invitation. I knew his greed would bite—he couldn’t resist the idea of locking in an overseas supplier without me. What he didn’t know was that there were three bricks of cocaine sewn into the lining of his suitcase. Enough to trigger every customs alarm they had.
He was arrested the moment he landed.
Held for forty-eight hours. Then transferred to a holding center. His passport was revoked. Investigations. Probes. Delays.
By the time they cleared his name, the funeral had happened.
The burial was over.
And the only son present at the time?
Me.
According to our father’s lawyers, temporary control of the estate falls to the next of kin physically available in the absence of a will. An old rule. Uncontested. Strategic.
