Small mistakes. Human ones.
A staff report timestamped two minutes before Adrian supposedly entered the hallway. A second bullet never recovered. A call from Paul’s private line to an unregistered burner that night. Tiny cracks. Meaningless to anyone not looking.
But to me, they were gold.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
Paul had orchestrated this with surgical precision, fueled by resentment deeper than blood. I remembered now—the disdain in his eyes during meetings, the contempt masquerading as civility. The way he spoke of my father when he thought no one listened. That quiet, gnawing hunger.
Paul had never accepted being second not to my father, not to me, certainly not to Adrian.
He didn’t just want power.
He wanted to burn those who had it.
And James?
James was the dagger.
That tr
