Chapter 12 - The Bastard Son
The suffocating tension in the study felt heavy enough to crush my lungs.
I stood completely frozen behind my ruined desk, staring at the man who had saved my life on countless occasions.
"Put the gun down, Carlo," I commanded, though my voice lacked its usual unshakeable authority.
Carlo simply laughed, a dry, hollow sound that sent a terrifying chill straight down my spine.
"My name is not Carlo, Julian," he stated coldly, keeping his weapon aimed squarely at Grace's forehead.
He slowly unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt, pulling down his collar to reveal a dark, jagged tattoo on his collarbone.
It was the exact same two-headed eagle insignia worn by the Volkov cartel, but with a golden crown resting above it.
"I am Alexei Volkov, the eldest and unacknowledged son of Ivan Volkov," he confessed with absolute pride.
The revelation hit me like a runaway freight train, completely shattering my understanding of the past two years.
Carlo explained that his father, Ivan, had never respected him because he was born to a low-level mistress.
To prove his worth, Carlo had infiltrated my organization five years ago, feeding my secrets directly to the Russian underworld.
"But then my idiot father decided to partner with your treacherous wife, Seraphina," Carlo spat with deep disgust.
He realized that Ivan and Seraphina were going to cut him out of the empire entirely.
So, Carlo played the role of the loyal enforcer, helping me destroy his own father and my wife so he could inherit everything without lifting a finger.
"The poison in that scotch was designed to look like a massive, untraceable heart attack," Carlo explained calmly.
He planned to kill me tonight, murder Grace in her sleep, and take Amara to use as leverage against my remaining loyalists.
A blinding, uncontrollable rage instantly overrode my shock.
I kicked the heavy oak desk forward with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The massive piece of furniture slammed into Carlo's knees, throwing off his aim just as he pulled the trigger.
His bullet grazed Grace's shoulder, burying itself into the drywall behind her.
I vaulted over the overturned desk, tackling Carlo to the Persian rug before he could fire a second shot.
We rolled across the floor in a brutal struggle, my hands desperately grappling for control of his suppressed weapon.
Grace scrambled to her feet, ignoring the blood dripping down her arm, and sprinted down the hallway to get Amara.
Carlo drove his elbow fiercely into my jaw, the sickening crack echoing loudly in the ruined study.
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He kicked me off of him and scrambled toward the open french doors leading to the garden.
"This is not over, Julian! My men have already surrounded the property!" he shouted, disappearing into the dark, rainy night.
