SINS OF MY BROTHER'S BROTHER

THE PROFILE

I spend the next four hours building Victor Ashworth.

Not the man himself — the understanding of him. The psychological architecture that will let me predict his moves, anticipate his weaknesses, find the cracks in his carefully constructed armor.

Lysander sits across from me at Dante's dining table, which has been converted into a war room. Between us: his notebook, Roman's prison files, Kieran's financial records, and my own growing profile.

The others drift in and out. Ezra brings updates from his surveillance team. Roman makes calls in the corner. Kieran disappears for an hour and returns with additional intelligence from his underground network. Kon stands guard at the doorway, a silent wall of muscle and vigilance.

But mostly, it's me and Lysander.

And his father.

"Tell me about his childhood," I say.

Lysander looks up from his coffee — his fourth cup. "I don't know much. He didn't talk about it."

"That's telling in itself. What do you know?"

"His father — my grandfather — was also a surgeon. Also Chief of Surgery at New Avalon General. The position was essentially hereditary." He pauses. "There were... rumors. About my grandfather. Whispers I overheard at family gatherings."

"What kind of rumors?"

"That he was cruel. That he viewed patients as subjects rather than people. That some of his 'innovative techniques' were developed through..." Lysander swallows. "Unethical experimentation."

"So Victor learned from someone."

"Apparently. Though I never met my grandfather. He died before I was born." A bitter laugh. "Heart attack on the operating table. Poetic, in a way."

I write: Generational pattern. Learned behavior. Not original pathology — inherited and refined.

"Your grandmother?"

"Cold. Distant. She's still alive, technically. Ninety-three and living in a care facility in Switzerland. She hasn't spoken to anyone in the family in decades. After my grandfather died, she just... retreated. Cut everyone off."

Emotional abandonment. Possible maternal detachment in Victor's childhood.

"And your mother?"

Lysander's expression hardens. "Eleanor Ashworth, née Wellington. Old money, older expectations. She married my father for status and security. I don't think she ever loved him. I don't think she's capable of love."

"Does she know about Victor's release?"

"If she does, she hasn't contacted me about it. We haven't spoken since the trial." His voice is flat. Carefully controlled. "She testified that she knew nothing about his activities. The jury believed her. I'm not sure I do."

Complicit or willfully blind. Either way, not a resource for Victor — too self-protective to risk her own status.

"Did Victor have friends? Colleagues he was close to?"

"Not friends. Admirers. People who respected his surgical skill, his reputation, his position. But genuine connection?" Lysander shakes his head. "I don't think he's capable. Everyone is either useful or not useful. That's the only distinction that matters to him."

I write: Narcissistic framework. Relationships are transactional. Loyalty is purchased, not earned.

"What about enemies? People he's crossed?"

"Plenty. Surgeons he outmaneuvered. Hospital administrators he undermined. Patients' families who suspected something but couldn't prove it." Lysander pauses. "But here's the thing about my father — he never left enemies standing. He destroyed them. Quietly, systematically, completely. By the time they realized they were under attack, it was already over."

Patient. Methodical. Prefers destruction over confrontation.

"That matches the stalking pattern," I say. "Eighteen months of watching me. No direct contact. Just... presence. Letting me know I was being observed without ever making a move."

"He's playing a game," Lysander says. "With rules only he understands."

"Then we need to learn the rules."

Roman appears at my elbow with a thick folder.

"Prison records," he says. "Medical files, incident reports, visitor logs, correspondence records. Everything from his twelve years inside."

I take the folder. It's heavier than expected.

"How did you get these?"

"I know people." His expression gives nothing away. "People who owe me favors. People who understand the value of political goodwill."

Translation: he called in markers. Leveraged his power. Did exactly what he warned me he does.

"Thank you," I say.

"Don't thank me yet. Some of what's in there..." He pauses. "It's going to be difficult to read."

I open the folder.

The first document is Victor's intake assessment from twelve years ago. Psychological evaluation conducted by the prison's mental health staff. I scan the summary:

Subject presents as calm, cooperative, and highly intelligent. No signs of distress or adjustment difficulties. Demonstrates sophisticated understanding of social dynamics and institutional hierarchies. Preliminary diagnosis: Antisocial Personality Disorder with narcissistic features. Recommend: Maximum security placement, limited social privileges.

"They saw what he was," I murmur. "And they put him in maximum security."

"For the first three years," Roman says. "Then he was transferred to medium security. Model prisoner. Exemplary behavior."

I flip through the records. He's right. After the initial assessment, Victor's file becomes a parade of commendations. Excellent conduct. Leadership in educational programs. Positive influence on fellow inmates.

"He was performing," I say.

"Obviously. But the performance worked." Roman points to a document near the bottom. "Look at the parole hearing transcripts."

I find them. Read.

Victor's statements are masterful. Humble without being sycophantic. Remorseful without being excessive. He talks about redemption, about wanting to rebuild his relationship with his son, about using his medical knowledge to help others.

"I made terrible mistakes," he told the parole board. "I betrayed everything I swore to uphold. But I've had twelve years to reflect, to change, to understand the harm I caused. I'm not asking for forgiveness — I'm asking for the chance to earn it."

The board was unanimous. Early release granted.

"They believed him," I say. "They actually believed him."

"He's convincing," Lysander says quietly. "He always was. Even when I was a child, even when I saw what he did, part of me wanted to believe there was an explanation. A reason. Something that made it make sense."

"That's how narcissistic sociopaths operate. They create reality distortions. Make you doubt your own perceptions." I set down the transcript. "What else is in here?"

"Visitor logs," Roman says.

I find them. Scan the names.

Most are lawyers — expected. A few are journalists, probably seeking interviews. And then, starting two years ago, a pattern emerges.

Monthly visits from someone named James Chen.

"Who is James Chen?" I ask.

Kieran appears behind me. I didn't hear him approach — he moves like smoke.

"Nobody," he says.

"What do you mean, nobody?"

"I mean the identity doesn't exist. James Chen is a ghost. No social security number, no employment records, no address, no digital footprint whatsoever." Kieran's pale eyes are cold. "Someone visited Victor Ashworth once a month for two years using a fabricated identity."

"Can you trace them? Security footage from the prison?"

"Working on it. But prison surveillance systems are notoriously poorly maintained. Most of the footage from those visits has been 'accidentally' deleted."

"Convenient."

"Very."

I stare at the visitor logs. James Chen. A fabricated person who visited Victor monthly, whose visits were erased from the security footage.

"He was building his network," I say. "Right under their noses. Using the visiting room to coordinate with someone on the outside."

"The question is who," Kieran says.

"And what they've been planning."

Silence falls over the table. The weight of what we're facing settles into the room like a physical presence.

Victor Ashworth isn't just a released prisoner with a grudge. He's a patient, methodical predator who has spent twelve years constructing something we can't see yet.

And in two days, he walks free.

"There's something else."

Everyone looks at Ezra. He's standing in the doorway, phone in hand, expression grim.

"What?" Dante asks.

"My team finished the diagnostic on our security systems. The breach was worse than we thought." He pauses. "Victor didn't just hack into this room. He's been inside our network for at least six months."

The silence that follows is absolute.

"Six months?" Dante's voice is dangerous. "He's been listening to us for six months?"

"Listening. Watching. Cataloging." Ezra's jaw tightens. "Every meeting we've had in this building. Every conversation. Every—"

He stops. His eyes flick to me.

Every conversation about me.

My stomach drops.

"He knows about the pact," I say. "He knows how the five of you feel about me. He's been watching you watch me."

"It's worse than that." Ezra moves into the room. "If he's been inside our network, he knows our security protocols. Our communication channels. Our plans."

"He knows we know about him," Kieran says. "That call yesterday — it wasn't a mistake. It was a declaration. He was telling us that the game has already started."

"And we're already losing," Roman adds quietly.

I look around the room. Six men, each powerful in their own domain, each accustomed to control and victory. And on their faces, I see something I haven't seen before:

Uncertainty.

Victor Ashworth has outmaneuvered them. For six months, he's been inside their walls, learning their secrets, mapping their vulnerabilities. And they didn't know.

I didn't know.

"No."

The word comes out harder than I intended. Every eye turns to me.

"We're not losing," I say. "We're learning. There's a difference."

"Irene—" Dante starts.

"Victor has spent twelve years planning this. He's patient, methodical, and extremely intelligent. He's also arrogant. That call yesterday? The revelation that he's been watching? That wasn't strategy — it was ego. He couldn't resist showing us how clever he's been."

I stand. Move to the center of the room.

"Arrogance is a weakness. It makes you predictable. It makes you sloppy. He revealed himself because he believes we can't stop him — because he's already won in his own mind." I meet each of their eyes in turn. "That's how we beat him. Not by outspending him or out-violencing him or out-strategizing him. By understanding him. By using his own psychology against him."

"How?" Kon asks.

"By giving him what he wants. Or making him believe we are." I turn to Lysander. "Your father wants you back. He said so on the call. Blood always comes home. What if blood came home early?"

Lysander goes pale. "You want me to meet with him?"

"Not meet. Engage. Controlled contact. Make him think his manipulation is working." I hold up a hand before he can object. "I'm not asking you to actually reconcile. I'm asking you to perform. You said he taught you to wear masks. Time to use that teaching against him."

"That's—" Lysander swallows. "That's incredibly dangerous."

"It's also our best option. Victor is expecting us to circle the wagons. To protect and defend and hide. He's not expecting one of his victims to come to him."

Silence.

Then Kieran speaks, his voice cold: "It's a good plan."

"It's a terrifying plan," Roman counters.

"Those are often the same thing."

I look at Lysander. His face is a war zone — fear and determination and something else, something deeper. The exhausted rage of a man who has spent twelve years running from his father's shadow.

"You don't have to do this," I say softly. "I won't ask you to sacrifice your peace of mind for—"

"Yes."

I blink. "Yes?"

"Yes. I'll do it." His jaw sets. "He took everything from me. My family, my reputation, my ability to trust. I've spent twelve years trying to rebuild, and now he's back, threatening the first people I've felt connected to since—" He stops. Breathes. "I'll meet with him. I'll perform. And when his guard is down, I'll be the knife you slide between his ribs."

The words are clinical. Surgical.

Appropriate, I think, for a surgeon.

"Then we have a plan," I say.

"We have the beginning of a plan," Dante corrects. "But it's better than nothing."

He looks at me. Something has shifted in his expression — the usual protectiveness tempered by something new.

Respect, I realize. He's finally seeing me.

"Alright," he says. "Let's get to work."

End of Chapter Thirteen