SINS OF MY BROTHER'S BROTHER

THE DAY OF

Friday arrives like a guillotine.

I wake to grey light and the knowledge that somewhere in New Avalon, Victor Ashworth is walking out of prison. Breathing free air. Taking the first steps of whatever game he's been planning for twelve years.

Ezra is gone from the chair — his shift ended at 6 AM, replaced by Roman, who stands at the window with a coffee cup and an expression I can't read.

"He's out," Roman says without turning. "Released at 5:47 AM. My people confirmed."

I sit up. The bruise on my wrist from Ezra's grip has darkened to purple. I pull my sleeve down before Roman notices.

"Where is he now?"

"Unknown. He was met at the gates by a black sedan. No plates. No traceable driver." Roman finally turns. His dark eyes sweep over me with that politician's assessment. "He disappeared within minutes of release."

"He planned that. He didn't want us tracking his first movements."

"Obviously." Roman sets down his coffee. "Lysander is ready. The meet is set for 2 PM at a restaurant in the Financial District. Public location, multiple exits, our people stationed at every vantage point."

"Victor will know we're watching."

"Of course he will. That's the point." Roman moves closer. His presence fills the room differently than the others — less heat, more pressure. "We're not trying to hide our involvement. We're showing him that Lysander isn't alone. That attacking him means attacking all of us."

"Deterrence."

"Posturing." A ghost of a smile. "Politics, essentially. Show of force without actual force. It's what I do."

I swing my legs out of bed. Roman's eyes track the movement, then deliberately look away. Respectful. Controlled. Strategic even in his desire.

"How is Lysander?" I ask.

"Terrified. Hiding it well." Roman pauses. "He's been in the library since 4 AM, reviewing his script. He won't admit he's scared, but I've known him for eight years. I can tell."

"I should talk to him."

"After breakfast. Dante's orders." Roman moves toward the door. "I'll give you privacy to dress. Fifteen minutes?"

"Ten."

He nods and leaves.

I sit in the empty room for a moment, feeling the weight of the day pressing down. Today, we make our first real move against Victor Ashworth. Today, Lysander faces the father who broke him.

Today, everything could go wrong.

Or everything could go right.

I hold onto that thought as I dress for war.

The library is dim.

Lysander sits in the leather armchair by the cold fireplace — my chair, I realize. The one I claimed two nights ago when I couldn't sleep.

He's wearing a suit. Dark grey, perfectly tailored, making him look older than his twenty-nine years. His honey-blond hair is styled with precision. His surgeon's hands rest on his knees, perfectly still.

He looks like a man going to a funeral.

"Hey," I say from the doorway.

He looks up. The easy humor that usually defines him is nowhere to be found.

"Hey yourself." His voice is flat. Controlled. "Come to give me a pep talk?"

"Came to check on you." I enter the room. Sit on the ottoman across from him. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm about to voluntarily walk into a lion's den and ask the lion if he wants to reconcile." A bitter laugh. "So, great. Fantastic. Couldn't be better."

"Lysander—"

"Don't." He holds up a hand. "Don't tell me I don't have to do this. Don't tell me there's another way. I've spent the last two hours talking myself into this and I can't afford to be talked out of it."

I study him. The tension in his jaw. The shadows under his eyes. The way his hands — those steady surgeon's hands — have the faintest tremor.

"I wasn't going to talk you out of it," I say.

"No?"

"No. I was going to tell you that what you're about to do is one of the bravest things I've ever witnessed. And I've witnessed a lot."

He stares at me.

"You're facing your worst fear," I continue. "Voluntarily. Not because you have to, but because you choose to. Because protecting the people you care about matters more than your own pain." I lean forward. "That's not just bravery, Lysander. That's love."

Something cracks behind his eyes. The carefully constructed composure fractures, just for a moment, revealing the terrified boy underneath.

"What if I can't do it?" he whispers. "What if I see him and I just... freeze? Fall apart? Become sixteen again?"

"Then you become sixteen again. And then you remember that you're not sixteen anymore. You're a surgeon who's saved hundreds of lives. You're a man who survived your father's shadow and built something meaningful from the wreckage. You're stronger than he ever expected you to be."

"You sound very certain."

"I am certain. I've studied men like your father for years. They underestimate everyone — especially their victims. He thinks you're still the broken boy he created. He doesn't know you've rebuilt yourself into someone he can't control."

Lysander is quiet for a long moment.

Then: "You're good at this."

"At what?"

"Making people believe in themselves." He manages a small, tired smile. "Is that a psychology thing or an Irene thing?"

"Both." I stand. Offer him my hand. "Come on. Breakfast. Then we go over the script one more time."

He takes my hand. Lets me pull him to his feet. And doesn't immediately let go.

"Irene."

"Yes?"

"Whatever happens today..." He pauses. Swallows. "Thank you. For seeing me as more than my father's son."

"That's the easiest thing in the world," I say. "Because you are."

The war room is full.

Everyone is present — Dante at the head of the table, Kieran by the window, Ezra near the door, Kon against the far wall, Roman reviewing documents. The tension in the air is thick enough to taste.

"Let's go through it one more time," Dante says as Lysander and I enter.

Lysander takes his seat. I stand behind him — a deliberate choice. I'm in his corner. Everyone can see it.

"The meeting is at La Maison, Financial District," Roman begins. "Private dining room in the back. Victor requested the location, which means he's familiar with it — probably has his own people stationed there."

"We've identified three likely infiltration points," Ezra adds. "Kitchen staff, valet, and a waiter who matches the description of one of Victor's prison contacts. We'll be monitoring all three."

"I'll have people in the main dining room," Kieran says. "Civilian clothes, blending with the lunch crowd. If anything goes wrong, they can intervene in under thirty seconds."

"The goal," Dante says, his eyes on Lysander, "is not confrontation. We're gathering intelligence. Assessing Victor's current state of mind. And making him believe that Lysander is considering reconciliation."

"I remember the goal," Lysander says quietly.

"Then remember the limits." Dante leans forward. "If he threatens you, you leave. If he makes physical contact you're uncomfortable with, you leave. If your instincts tell you something is wrong, you leave. Your safety is more important than any information we might gather."

"Understood."

"One more thing." Dante's expression softens slightly. "You're not alone in there. Irene will be monitoring via earpiece. If you need extraction, you say the word cardinal. Our people will be inside within seconds."

Lysander touches his ear — the nearly invisible device already in place.

"Cardinal," he repeats. "Got it."

"Any questions?" Dante asks the room.

Silence.

"Then we're set." Dante stands. "Lysander, car leaves in one hour. Use the time however you need."

The room begins to empty. Ezra and Kieran leave first, already coordinating on their phones. Roman squeezes Lysander's shoulder as he passes — a brief, wordless support.

Kon lingers at the doorway.

"Lys," he says. His voice is rough. Uncertain.

Lysander looks up.

"You're the bravest person I know." Kon's hands clench at his sides. "I just wanted you to know that. Before."

Then he's gone, before Lysander can respond.

I watch Lysander's expression shift — surprise, then something warmer.

"He's not good with words," I say.

"Neither am I, usually." Lysander manages a small smile. "I hide it better."

"You hide a lot of things better."

"Professional necessity." He stands. Straightens his suit. "One hour. I think I'm going to throw up at least twice before then."

"I'll hold your hair."

He laughs — a real laugh, surprised and genuine.

"God, I really do like you," he says.

"The feeling is mutual."

"Even though I'm about to do something monumentally stupid?"

"Especially because of that." I touch his arm. "Go. Prepare. I'll be in your ear the whole time."

He nods. Starts to leave. Pauses at the door.

"Irene?"

"Yes?"

"If this goes wrong..." He doesn't turn around. "Tell the others I'm sorry. For all of it. For bringing my father's shadow into their lives."

"It won't go wrong."

"But if it does."

"It won't." I put every ounce of certainty I have into the words. "Because you're not going to let it. You're going to walk into that restaurant, face the monster who raised you, and show him exactly how wrong he was about you. And then you're going to walk out again. Whole."

Silence.

Then, quietly: "You really believe that?"

"I believe in you. Same thing."

He finally turns. His eyes are bright. Not tears — something fiercer.

"One hour," he says.

"One hour."

He leaves.

I stand in the empty war room and pray I'm right.

End of Chapter Fifteen