Fortunes Bite

Chapter Three

Lucas Cross paced the penthouse hallway like a caged wolf, the polished marble floor chilling his

bare feet through thin socks. The Upper East Side hummed faintly beyond the windows—sirens

wailing, taxis honking—but inside, silence pressed like a blade. Hansel should have slipped out

by now, that nervous nod signaling all clear. Instead, nothing. Five minutes ticked past on

Lucas's watch, each second sharpening his gut-twist.He'd pushed Hansel in there, ignoring the

man's sweaty protests. "Just peek," Lucas had hissed, voice low under the chandelier's crystal

gleam. "Alfred's fading—get the latest on the will." Hansel had balked, eyes darting to the double

doors. "He said no interruptions, Mr. Lucas. Ever." But Lucas had leaned in, close enough to

smell the nurse's cheap cologne mixed with fear-sweat. "Do it for the payout. Double this

time."For five years, Hansel had been his shadow in the old man's empire—friend to Alfred's

face, funneling whispers to Lucas's burner phone. Health updates: the cancer gnawing deeper.

Business deals: shell companies

blooming like weeds. Affairs: tangled webs with boardroom widows and starlet side-pieces, each

one a potential lever. It started simple, a favor after Alfred's last caretaker "quit" under a cloud—

bruises unexplained, resignation letter smelling of coercion. Lucas had planted Hansel then, a

nobody with a nursing cert and a gambling debt. Perfect.But roots ran deeper. Fifteen years back,

their mother Frieda had gasped her last on a hospice bed, eyes fever-bright. "Boys," she'd

wheezed, clutching Lucas's hand—Damon too numb to move—"the fortune's poisoned. Watch the

moon... and your father." Then Alfred's luck exploded: insurance sales to overnight billions,

enemies vanishing like smoke. Extravagant "gifts" rained on the sons—private jets, Swiss

vaults—not security, in Lucas's eyes, but bribes. Keep quiet. Conform. Don't dig. Damon lapped it

up, the golden heir. Lucas? He clawed for scraps, emotionally adrift since Frieda's warnings

turned to dust.A muffled shout pierced the doors—Alfred's baritone cracking vicious. Lucas froze,

ear to the wood. Damon's losing it? His brother had a temper, sure, but never against the old

man. Not like this. Then the thud: heavy, wet, like a sack of meat hitting tile. Lucas's pulse

thundered. Alfred knows. The private meeting—it's a trap. Damon didn't outshine him in smarts or

savvy; age was his only edge, that firstborn crown. But if the old wolf had sniffed out the

spy...He'd suspected Alfred for years, ever since the fortune's flip. Modest roots didn't breed

tycoons overnight. Frieda waiting cafe tables in downtown Manhattan, apron stained with grease.

Alfred hawking insurance policies door-to-door, his vintage blue BMW a ridiculous splash amid

subway crowds—tailored English suits crisp as a lie. Irish-Catholic grit, sure, but that cunning glint

in his eye? Ruthless, always chalked up to "business." Now, Lucas saw fangs in the flash.No

more waiting. He twisted the knob, slipping in silent as a shadow. The air hit first: thick with

copper tang, undercut by something wild—wet fur, moon-soaked pine. His stomach lurched.Alfred

reclined on the bed, gaunt face slack as if napping, tubes humming softly. Damon stood by the

medical trolley, sleeves rolled, face a mask of frost—those icy blues unreadable. No sign of

Hansel. But the kidney dish lay twisted on the floor, and beyond it...A sprawl of blue

scrubs, headless. Blood arced in dark fans across the tiles, Hansel's wide-eyed skull lolled a foot

away, mouth frozen in a silent oh. Lucas's breath hitched, bile rising. God, no. He clamped down

the gasp, years of boardroom poker faces kicking in."Lucas." Damon's voice cut low, not a

question. He gripped the bed's rail, knuckles white. "Father needs his study. Privacy. Help me

wheel him."Alfred stirred then, eyes cracking open—not the dull gray of sickness, but a flicker of

gold, sly and sated. "Yes, boy. The envelope... later." His words slurred casual, like discussing

stock tips. No mention of the corpse. No alarm.Lucas swallowed, nodding jerkily. Play it. He

moved to the bed's foot, unlocking the wheels with a click that echoed too loud. Damon took the

head, silent as stone, and they rolled Alfred out—past the mess, the old man's gaze sliding over

the body like discarded trash. The doors clicked shut behind them, sealing the study with a

finality that chilled Lucas's spine.Alone now, heart slamming, he dropped to his knees beside

Hansel. You i***t. You knew the risks. But had he? Whispers from Frieda echoed: Alfred's not

human when cornered. Lucas

had gambled anyway—double payout—half-hoping the old man was too weak to snap. Fingers

shaking, he patted the scrubs' pockets, fabric sodden and warm. There: a hard lump. He yanked

it free—a slim digital recorder, its red light still blinking faint. Recording.Hansel had snuck it in,

bold as brass. Lucas's doing—Get it all, every word. The display showed thirty seconds: Alfred's

rasp, then the shout, the thud. Enough to damn them both. He thumbed play, volume

whisper-low."Do you not hear me, boy?" Alfred's whip-crack. A pause. Clang. Then the wet

rip—fangs tearing flesh, bone crunching. A gasp—Damon's? Silence, broken by Alfred's drawl:

"Well, thank goodness... he stepped out of line."Lucas's blood iced. The old man knew. And if

he'd traced it to Hansel... to him? No confrontation yet—Alfred's pride too vast, chalking spies to

rival corps. But this tape? It was a noose, tight around his neck. Or a weapon. Frieda's voice

ghosted again: Watch the moon. Full one rising soon—did it stir the beast in them all?He

pocketed the recorder, mind racing. Damon had the envelope now, that wolf-crest seal.

Whatever "true mate" clause hid inside, Lucas needed it. Leverage. And that alert buzzing his

phone—Lily Hart's art sales spiking? Anonymous buyer, quarter mil drop. Perfect pawn. An artist

with a journalist's bite under that pseudonym... she could dig where he couldn't.Rising, he

dragged a rug over the body—temporary shroud. Sorry, Hansel. You bought the intel. But as

blood seeped through the weave, a snarl built in Lucas's throat, unbidden. Primal. His nails

sharpened, just a flicker, before he crushed it down.The study door creaked. Damon, back too

soon. "What the hell are you—"Lucas whirled, tape burning in his pocket like a brand. Game on,

brother. But this time, I bite first.