Chapter 14
“How could you tell me the warehouse and everything in it got burnt?”
The voice split the room like a whip.
I didn’t answer right away. My uncle’s words hung heavy, dripping with accusation, filling the space until even the silence seemed to bow beneath them. I’d learned long ago that silence was sometimes the best armor. Let him rage, let him curse. Words spent in fury were often words wasted.
But De Carpo wasn’t a man who wasted much.
He stood in front of me, his shoulders rigid beneath a charcoal suit, the fire of his temper etched into every line of his face. His age hadn’t dulled him—if anything, it had sharpened him into something harder, something less forgiving. His eyes gleamed with the cold edge of steel, the veins at his temple straining with his anger.
To him, this wasn’t just about a warehouse. It was about pride. Ownership. Control.
“I put you in charge,” he snarled, stepping closer. The air between us tightened, thick with the weight of his disdain. “You, Adrian. Because you swore nothing would slip under your nose. You swore my assets were safe. And now?” His hand shot up in a vicious gesture toward the window, as if the flames were still licking the sky outside. “Ashes. Smoke. Do you have any idea what was lost?”
I kept my jaw locked, my breathing measured.
“I got the call when you did,” I said at last with a low, deliberate voice meant to calm him down. “I don’t know yet how it happened. But I do know this—nothing in my watch goes wrong without a reason. Someone wanted this. Someone planned it.”
He scoffed dismissively, pacing like a wolf too caged to tear at the prey before it. “Excuses. Fire doesn’t care about your reasons. Fire doesn’t respect your men, your security, or your precious control. Fire consumes. That’s all it does. And now it has consumed me.”
“No,” I corrected, forcing my words to come out respectfully, even as irritation sparked hot in my chest. “It hasn’t consumed you, Uncle. It’s consumed your goods, your profits. And yes, that matters. But don’t confuse my loyalty with carelessness. My men guard that warehouse night and day. Security is airtight. No one walks in or out without being checked. Which is exactly why I don’t believe this was an accident. Somebody made it happen. Somebody who wanted to send a message.”
De Carpo’s gaze snapped to me, as if the eyes were studying and searching for any clue of lies or deceit. He liked to play the role of elder, the patriarch whose shadow I would never outgrow. But I’d built too much, earned too much, carried too much, to bow my head to him now.
“You think someone’s after you?” he asked, voice curling with sarcasm. “That’s convenient. Blame an enemy, wash your hands clean. Clever, Adrian. Very clever.”
“I don’t wash my hands of anything,” I said, stepping into his line of fire, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I’ll take responsibility, like I always do. I’ll replace everything. Every dollar lost. Every ounce of product. You won’t feel the gap.”
That made him pause.
For the first time since he stormed into my office, his fury softened—not into forgiveness, but into calculation. Money was the only balm that could soothe De Carpo. Not family. Not loyalty. Not blood. Money.
Slowly, his lips curved into a smile, thin and cunning, the kind that slithered across his face without ever touching his eyes. He stepped forward and laid a hand on my arm, the gesture outwardly paternal but inwardly a chain tightening around my throat.
“Good,” he murmured. “That’s what I needed to hear. I knew I could count on you, nephew.”
The warmth of his touch was false, I could feel it.. I shifted, subtle but deliberate, sliding my arm free of his grasp. His smile faltered for the briefest moment before returning, but the crack in it was enough.
Inside, I kept my expression unreadable, but my instincts sharpened. De Carpo was satisfied for now, but satisfaction in this family never lasted long. Especially not his.
With a clipped tone, I said to him, “I should return to the office,” I said, adjusting my jacketl. “I need to coordinate the cleanup. Trace the origin. My men will already be working, but they’ll need direction from me.”
De Carpo’s eyes glinted, his smile softening into something more mocking than warmth. “No, no. Sit. At least have coffee with me. What’s the rush? The fire’s already done its damage.” He gestured toward the armchairs near the window, where a carafe and porcelain cups waited untouched. His voice had smoothed itself into silk, but silk can strangle just as tightly as rope.
I didn’t move. “Not tonight.”
His brows arched, surprise flickering beneath his mask. Not many refused him outright. For anyone else, his “invitation” would have been a command. But I wasn’t anyone else.
“Adrian,” he said slowly, measuring each word like a blade, “sometimes business can wait. Family—”
“Family,” I cut in, my voice flat, “has never been what you cared about, Uncle. You care about money. About warehouses. About the men who guard them and the profits they bleed into your accounts. But me?” I let the words hang for a moment, a thin smile tugging at my mouth. “I’ve never mattered to you. Not beyond what I could secure for you.”
His smile faltered, irritation seeping through the cracks. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, studying me as though he were reassessing the threat level of a weapon he thought he already understood.
“You’ve grown bold,” he said at last. “Dangerously so.”
“I’ve grown realistic,” I replied. “That’s what keeps me alive.”
I turned toward the door with a calm stride ready to walk away.
“Careful, Adrian,” his voice followed me, smooth but edged like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “That tongue of yours will cut deeper than you think.”
I paused at the threshold, glancing back just once. His eyes burned with something darker than anger, something like resentment, or maybe even fear disguised as disdain.
“Maybe that’s what keeps us alive,” I said.
And with that, I left. Refusing his coffee. Refusing his company. Refusing the false hand of kinship he offered like a poisoned chalice.
Because I knew the truth: my uncle’s world was built on profit, not blood. And if the day came when I became a liability instead of an asset, he would watch me burn just as easily as that warehouse.
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The drive back was quiet, but my thoughts weren’t.
The image of the fire played behind my eyes, flames clawing up into the night sky, smoke bleeding into the stars. A warehouse reduced to ash in minutes. But it wasn’t the loss of goods that unsettled me. It was the precision of it. The deliberate nature of it. Fire doesn’t strike clean by accident. As I checked and took a survey, everything looked like it was done to get back at me for something.
No—someone had orchestrated this. Someone had studied my operation, found the seam, and split it wide open.
.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, If it was an enemy, they’d just signed their death warrant. If it was my uncle… then blood alone wouldn’t shield him.
By the time the city lights gave way to the familiar skyline of my district where the office was situated, my mind was already moving three steps ahead—securing the remaining warehouses, doubling patrols, interrogating the men who had been on watch. Someone would crack. Someone always did.