Chapter 139
Devon's POV
I stood in the hallway outside the recovery suite, each movement sending fresh waves of pain from my abdominal wound. The medication was wearing off, but I wouldn't show weakness. Not now. I'd spent a lifetime hiding pain—physical discomfort was nothing compared to what I'd endured before.
Marcus approached, concern evident in his eyes despite his professional demeanor. "Boss, you shouldn't be up yet. The doctor recommended at least two days of bed rest."
I dismissed his concern with a slight wave. "There are more important matters." I kept my voice steady though each word cost me effort. The image of Aria sleeping peacefully in the next room flickered through my mind. She had stayed. That knowledge provided a strange comfort I wasn't ready to examine.
"Is our client secure?"
"Yes, sir. We moved him to the safe house."
"And Connor?" The name of my brother tasted bitter on my tongue. He had always been Father's favorite, the golden child who could do no wrong, even when his recklessness put others in danger. Even when his bullet found its way into my flesh.
"He escaped during the confrontation," Marcus hesitated. "We could eliminate him directly. It would be cleaner."
I raised my hand, stopping the suggestion. "No. Find out where he's hiding. Gather evidence of what he did." My jaw tightened involuntarily, the wound in my side throbbing with every heartbeat. "And inform our client we're raising our fee by thirty percent. The risk has increased."
Marcus checked his phone. "I just received word—Connor is at the family estate. East wing."
"I see." I felt my expression harden as I made my decision. Connor always ran back to Father's protection. This time, it wouldn't save him.
---
The Kane family mansion in the Upper East Side stood as a monument to old money and older traditions. Five stories of limestone and marble, with columns flanking the entrance and ivy climbing the walls. Inside, Persian rugs covered hardwood floors polished to a mirror shine. Crystal chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings. Every piece of furniture, every painting on the wall had been selected to broadcast power and heritage.
I had always hated it. To me, it was a museum of expectations I could never meet, a showcase of traditions that always found me wanting.
My father, Arthur Kane, sat in his favorite antique chair in the grand hall, barely acknowledging my entrance. The leather-bound book in his hands was probably older than this country. He didn't even look up.
"So you've decided to grace us with your presence," he remarked coldly.
I stood motionless, keeping my face carefully neutral despite the pain pulsing through my abdomen. He didn't ask if I was alright. He never did.
Father's eyes finally lifted, narrowing as he observed me. "You look unwell. How bad is the injury?"
"It's healed," I replied shortly, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing the truth. The last time I'd shown weakness in this house, I was fourteen. I still had the scars.
"Do you understand what you've done wrong?" His voice hardened, the voice that had commanded boardrooms for decades. "Brothers at each other's throats. The Hayes girl your mother carefully selected for you marrying into the Pierce family instead. What exactly are you doing with your time, Devon?"
I met his gaze directly. "Nothing much."
His face flushed with anger. "Go to the study and reflect until you come to your senses!"
The command hung in the air between us. Once, that voice would have sent me immediately to the study, like a chastened schoolboy. Not anymore. Father had never asked what started the conflict with Connor. Had never questioned why my brother might have pointed a gun at me. In his eyes, it was always my failure, never Connor's.
I ignored my father's command, walking purposefully toward the east wing where Connor resided. Each step brought both pain and clarity. The east wing had always been Connor's domain—larger than mine, with better views of the gardens, a concession from Father I had learned to accept long ago.
Marcus followed close behind, his footsteps nearly silent on the thick carpet.
"Why not explain the truth?" he asked quietly. "If Mr. Kane knew Connor tried to sabotage Kane Technologies' deal, he would take your side."
I didn't respond. Marcus didn't understand that nothing would change Father's mind. Connor had always been the heir apparent, the son who would carry on the Kane legacy. I was the spare, useful only when Connor failed. Even then, the blame always fell to me.
Two security guards moved to block my path at the entrance to the east wing. Father's men, tasked with protecting his favorite son. I didn't even need to give the order—Marcus, despite his own injuries, quickly neutralized them with efficient strikes. They slumped unconscious to the floor as Marcus rejoined me.
---
Standing at the entrance to Connor's quarters, I could hear the sounds of a man and woman from upstairs. My brother, enjoying himself while I'd been fighting for my life. A familiar scenario—Connor taking what he wanted, consequences be damned, while I cleaned up his messes.
My expression remained impassive as I walked to the liquor cabinet, removing several bottles of expensive brandy—Connor's favorite, imported from France at five thousand dollars a bottle. Father always ensured Connor had the best.
Methodically, I poured the amber liquid over carpets and drapes, saturating the expensive fabrics. The smell of alcohol filled the air, sharp and potent. Each splash of liquid brought back memories—Connor's mockery when I was passed over for honors at school, his smirk when Father reprimanded me for his mistakes, the cold dismissal in his eyes when his decisions put others at risk.
I flicked open my lighter, watching the small flame dance for a moment. One small fire to cleanse a greater corruption. I touched it to the alcohol-soaked material. Fire bloomed instantly, racing along the trail I'd created, consuming the trappings of privilege that had sheltered Connor his entire life.
Walking outside, I sat on a stone bench in the garden. My wound throbbed, but the pain seemed distant now. The flames consumed the building with increasing voracity, orange and yellow against the morning sky. I watched with clinical detachment. Marcus closed the main doors, ensuring no one could enter to help.
Soon enough, Connor discovered the fire. I could see his panicked face at the window as he found the staircase already engulfed in flames. His eyes widened when they locked with mine in the garden below. Understanding dawned in his expression, followed by rage.
"Devon, how dare you!" he screamed through the glass, his voice muffled.