SINS OF MY BROTHER'S BROTHER

THE MEETING

Lysander's POV

The restaurant smells like money.

Not literally — it smells like rosemary and butter and expensive wine — but the feeling is money. Old money. The kind that whispers instead of shouts, that assumes its own superiority so completely it never needs to prove it.

My father's kind of money.

I stand at the entrance of La Maison, frozen in place, while the maître d' waits with professionally concealed impatience.

"Lysander. Can you hear me?"

Irene's voice in my ear. Soft. Steady. An anchor in the storm.

"Yes," I murmur, barely moving my lips. "I'm here."

"Good. Remember — you're in control. He wants something from you. That gives you power."

Power. Right.

I don't feel powerful. I feel sixteen years old, standing outside my father's study, trying to work up the courage to tell someone what I saw.

Move, I tell myself. He's just a man. Flesh and blood. You've cut into men like him on the operating table. You've held their hearts in your hands.

The thought helps. Slightly.

I follow the maître d' through the main dining room — catching glimpses of Kieran's people at various tables, their civilian clothes doing nothing to hide the watchful tension in their bodies — and into the private room at the back.

He's already there.

Victor Ashworth sits at a table by the window, sunlight catching the silver in his hair, a glass of wine in his hand. He's wearing a suit — charcoal grey, impeccably tailored, the same style he wore to every hospital board meeting when I was a child.

He looks exactly the same.

That's the worst part. Twelve years in prison, and he looks exactly the same. As if time has no power over him. As if nothing can touch him.

He sees me. Smiles.

"Lysander." His voice is warm. Paternal. The voice that used to read me bedtime stories. "You came."

My feet carry me forward without my permission. I sit across from him. The chair is uncomfortable — or maybe that's just me.

"Father," I say. The word tastes like ash.

"Please — Victor." He gestures dismissively. "We're both adults now. No need for formality."

"Good. Keep him talking. The more he talks, the more we learn."

Irene's voice steadies me. I take a breath.

"You wanted to meet," I say. "I'm here. What do you want?"

"Straight to business." Victor's smile doesn't waver. "You always were efficient. A surgeon's mind — cutting away the unnecessary, getting to the heart of things." He sips his wine. "Literally, in your case."

"Answer the question."

"I want what I said on the phone. To rebuild. To reconnect." He sets down his glass. Folds his hands on the table. "I've had twelve years to think, Lysander. Twelve years to understand where I went wrong."

"Where you went wrong was harvesting organs from homeless people."

The words come out harder than I intended. Irene's voice immediately sounds in my ear: "Careful. Don't let him provoke you."

But Victor doesn't react to the accusation. His expression remains placid. Understanding.

"I made mistakes," he says calmly. "Terrible mistakes. I let ambition blind me to basic ethical principles. I convinced myself that the ends justified the means — that the medical advancements I was funding, the lives I was saving with those transplants, outweighed the lives I was taking."

"They didn't."

"No. They didn't." He nods slowly. "I know that now. Prison gives you time for reflection. For confronting the ugliest parts of yourself."

He's performing, I think. Every word calculated. Every gesture rehearsed.

"He's testing you," Irene says in my ear. "Seeing how you respond to apparent remorse. Don't buy it, but don't reject it too obviously either."

"Why now?" I ask. "Why contact me after all these years?"

"Because I'm dying."

The words land like a blow.

"Possible manipulation," Irene warns. "Verify before you react."

"Dying," I repeat flatly.

"Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Inoperable." Victor's expression shifts — something almost vulnerable flickers across his features. "Six months, according to the prison physicians. Possibly less."

I study him. Looking for tells. For signs of performance.

I find none.

That doesn't mean it's true. My father is the best liar I've ever known.

"If that's true," I say carefully, "why spend your remaining time pursuing revenge? Why stalk Dante Morretti's sister? Why hack into their security systems?"

Victor tilts his head. The vulnerability disappears, replaced by something sharper.

"Who said anything about revenge?"

"Your phone call made your intentions clear."

"My phone call was a greeting. An announcement of my return to the world." He leans forward slightly. "I have no interest in revenge, Lysander. Revenge is for people who have time to waste. I don't."

"He's lying," Irene says. "His micro-expressions don't match his words. Push him."

"Then explain the eighteen months of surveillance on Irene Morretti."

For the first time, something flickers in Victor's composure. Surprise? Confusion?

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Someone stalked her in London. For a year and a half. Professional surveillance, photographs, notes. The pattern matches someone with resources and patience. Someone like you."

Victor is quiet for a moment. His eyes — cold, calculating, familiar — hold mine.

"It wasn't me," he says finally.

"Then who?"

"I don't know." He picks up his wine again. Swirls it thoughtfully. "But if someone has been watching Miss Morretti, that's... concerning. It suggests someone else has taken an interest in Dante Morretti's vulnerabilities."

"He's deflecting," Irene says. "But there's something else in his voice. He's not lying — not entirely. He genuinely didn't know about the London stalking."

I file that away. If Victor didn't stalk Irene in London, then who did?

"Let me be clear," Victor continues. "I contacted you because I want to make amends before I die. Not because I expect forgiveness — I know that's impossible. But because I want you to understand why. Why I did what I did. Why I became what I became."

"I already know why. Greed. Ambition. A complete lack of empathy."

"Those are symptoms, not causes." His voice hardens slightly. "You've studied psychology, haven't you? In your work with criminal psychiatric patients? You know that pathology has origins. Roots."

"Your childhood."

"My father. Your grandfather." Victor's expression shifts again — something darker surfacing. "Edgar Ashworth was a pioneer in surgical technique. He was also a monster. The things he did to me in the name of 'toughening me up' — the experiments he conducted on vulnerable patients while I was forced to watch—"

He stops. Takes a breath. Controls himself.

"I'm not asking for sympathy. I'm asking for understanding. The cycle didn't start with me. And it doesn't have to continue with you."

"He's trying to create connection," Irene says. "Shared victimhood. Classic manipulation tactic."

I know it's manipulation. I know every word out of his mouth is calculated.

And yet.

And yet.

Some part of me — some small, broken, sixteen-year-old part — wants what he's offering. Wants an explanation. Wants to believe that my father was made, not born. That the monster has a tragic origin story.

That I could have been saved if someone had just understood.

"I need time," I hear myself say. "To process this."

Victor nods slowly. "Of course. I don't expect instant reconciliation. I only ask for... consideration. The possibility of more conversations. Before my time runs out."

"Good. That's good. You've established ongoing contact without committing to anything."

I stand. My legs feel unsteady.

"I'll be in touch," I say.

"I hope so." Victor remains seated. His eyes follow me as I move toward the door. "And Lysander?"

I stop. Don't turn around.

"Whatever is happening with Miss Morretti — whatever threat is circling your new family — be careful. There are forces in motion that even I don't fully understand."

A chill runs down my spine.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that someone is playing a game on a much larger board than any of us realized." His voice is soft. Almost concerned. "And none of us may be the players we think we are."

I leave without responding.

But his words follow me out of the restaurant, into the car, all the way back to Dante's penthouse.

There are forces in motion that even I don't fully understand.

If Victor Ashworth is scared, we should all be terrified.

End of Chapter Sixteen