Heir to Ashes

Chapter 2

The rain hammered against the towering glass facade of One Vanderbilt. Marcus Thorne pressed his forehead to the cool window of his office, watching the city below pulse like a living beast, headlights streaking through puddles, umbrellas bobbing like frantic ants. New York never slept, and neither did his rage. It simmered, always, just beneath the polished veneer of his Armani suit.

Half!.

The word echoed in his skull like a curse.

Alex's text still burned on his phone screen, casual as ever: Contract sealed. Dubai's ours. 50/50 split, little brother. Meet me at the house tomorrow, dinner, champagne, the works. Time to celebrate family.

Family??. What a joke. Marcus hurled the phone onto his desk, where it skittered across and clattered against a crystal decanter.

Whiskey splashed out, the sharp, peaty scent filling the air like smoke from a fresh wound. He poured himself another glass, his third? Fourth, and let the burn chase away the memories that always clawed back when Alex dangled his scraps.

It started young. Their parents' Hamptons estate, summers by the Atlantic, waves crashing, seagulls screeching. Alex, the prodigy at sixteen, already interning at Dad's firm, charming investors with that effortless Thorne grin. Marcus, ten and scrawny, tagging along like a shadow. "Watch your brother," Mom would say, ruffling Marcus's hair. "He's going places. Learn from him."

Learn. As if Alex ever shared the spotlight. College hit, and Alex sailed through Harvard Business School on a full ride, emerging with deals lined up like dominoes. Marcus scraped by at NYU, drowning in parties and bad bets, calling Alex for "loans" that were never repaid. "Blood's thicker than water," Alex would say, wiring the cash with a sigh. But Marcus saw the pity in his eyes—the superiority.

And Elena? God, Elena. The woman who could have been his. Flashback to that charity gala five years ago, her in red silk, laughter like music. Marcus had approached first, charm dialled up, offering champagne and compliments. She'd smiled politely, but her eyes flicked past him, to Alex, striding in like he owned the room. By midnight, she was on Alex's arm. Married him six months later. Gave him Liam, the perfect heir.

Marcus's grip tightened on the glass until his knuckles whitened. Half the profits. After Alex had swooped in on the Dubai bid, using Thorne family connections that Marcus could never touch. Fifty million upfront, hundreds more to flow. And Marcus got... charity? A pity split?

No. Not this time.

He unlocked his desk drawer with a thumbprint scan, a high-tech feature courtesy of one of Alex's "gifts." Inside: stacks of unmarked bills, a Glock he hoped he'd never need, and a slim black burner phone. He flipped it open, the cheap plastic creaking, and dialled the number etched into his memory.

Two rings. A voice answered, gravelly, accented, like broken glass in a blender. Eastern European, maybe Serbian. "This better be important."

"It's Thorne," Marcus said, voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking his veins. "The consultation we discussed. I need it expedited."

A low chuckle. "Expedited means premium. You sure, Mr. Big Shot? Last time you backed out."

Marcus paced to the window, staring at his reflection, sharp jaw, dark eyes like Alex's, but hollower. Hungrier. "I'm sure. Full package. Primary target: Alexander Thorne. Associates: his wife, Elena, and their son, Liam. No loose ends."

The line hummed. "The kid? That's extra messy. Cops dig deeper with kids."

"Doesn't matter." Marcus's heart thudded, but he pushed through. "He's the future. I won't have some vengeful teenager knocking on my door in ten years. Make it look random, home invasion, robbery. The Hamptons' place has valuables: jewelry, art, and cash in the safe. Take what you want; sell it far. Just... end it clean."

"Timeline?"

"Tonight." Marcus glanced at the clock, 9:15 p.m. "They're winding down dinner. Alex is riding high on the win, distracted. Security's light: cameras, alarms, and one housekeeper. She's older, loyal, but no threat."

"Payment structure?"

"Half wired now. The rest is on proof, photos, and timestamps. Untraceable account, like before."

A pause, then: "We'll need blueprints. Access codes if you have them."

Marcus smirked faintly. "Family perks. I'll text them from this line. Gate code's 1987, our parents' anniversary. Panic room in the master suite, but they won't reach it if you're fast."

"Smart man. Team's assembling. You'll hear nothing until it's done."

The call ended with a click. Marcus exhaled, the breath fogging the glass. His hands shook, just a little. Was this regret? No. Survival. Alex had everything: the mansion overlooking the Atlantic, the devoted wife, the adoring son, the empire. Marcus had scraps. Always scraps.

He sank into his leather chair, pulling up old photos on his laptop, Thorne family vacations. Alex hoisting Liam on broad shoulders at Coney Island, Elena beaming beside them. Another: Christmas in the Hamptons, snow blanketing the grounds, Alex kissing Elena under twinkling lights while Liam unwrapped a drone Marcus had gifted him.

Jealousy twisted like a knife. Why him? Why always him?

Marcus closed the laptop and texted Alex back: Wouldn't miss it. See you tomorrow, big bro. Bring the good stuff.

Sent. Deleted.

In a nondescript garage in Queens, four shadows moved with practiced silence. Viper, the leader, scarred face, eyes like voids, nodded to his crew: ex-military, all. They geared up: black fatigues, suppressed pistols, knives sheathed at belts, a breaching kit for the estate's reinforced doors.

"Intel's solid," Viper muttered, unfolding a digital blueprint on his tablet. "Mansion's isolated, nearest neighbours are half a mile. Hit the service entrance first; disable cameras. Husband in the dining room, wife with him. Kid upstairs. Housekeeper floats."

The wiry one, call him Ghost, strapped on night-vision goggles. "And if she plays hero?"

Viper's smile was cold. "Heroes don't last. Prioritize the boy after the parents. Client's insistent, no survivors."

They piled into the unmarked van, engine purring low. Rain slicked the roads as they merged onto the Long Island Expressway, heading east toward the Hamptons. No words. Just the steady thrum of tires on wet asphalt, building like a heartbeat toward doom.

Back in Manhattan, Marcus stood again, glass refilled. The storm had eased; stars pricked the sky above the skyscrapers. He raised a toast to the empty office.

"To equality," he whispered. "Finally."

The whiskey burned going down, but it tasted like victory. Tomorrow, the news would erupt: *Tragic Home Invasion Claims Billionaire Alexander Thorne and Family. Brother Devastated.*

And Marcus, the sole survivor and rightful heir, would rise from the ashes. No more shadows. No more half-measures.

The throne was his.

All he had to do was bury the king.