Chapter 8 - The Confession on the Screen
Marcus Sterling didn't raise his hands.
Instead, he hit one final, deliberate key on the laptop keyboard, pressing Enter with a soft, infuriating click.
A loud, electronic chime rang out from the wall-mounted media console across the room. The large projection screen descended automatically from the ceiling, flickering to life with a brightly lit audio-visual playback window.
I kept my pistol leveled at his chest, my finger taking up the slack on the trigger.
“Don't move an inch, Marcus,” I warned.
“I’m not moving, Vincent,” Marcus said, finally leaning back in the leather chair and folding his hands neatly across his lap. He looked entirely too relaxed for a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. “In fact, I suggest you watch the screen before you do something regrettable. That file I just uploaded is configured on a dead-man’s switch. If my heartbeat monitor flatlines—or if this laptop loses connection to the cloud—every encrypted file linking your syndicate to the federal shipping manifests goes live to every major news outlet in the country.”
Dominic stepped into the library, his weapon raised, scanning the room for hidden threats. He glanced at the projection screen, his jaw tightening.
“What is that?” Dominic asked harshly.
“That,” Marcus smiled, gesturing toward the display, “is the insurance policy that keeps me breathing. Go ahead, Vincent. Look at the timestamp.”
I glanced up at the projection screen.
The video feed was dated forty days ago—at 8:14 PM.
The exact night of the explosion.
The camera angle was from the underground parking garage beneath our private corporate headquarters. On the screen, a tall figure in a dark trench coat was kneeling beside the front driver’s side wheel well of my personal sedan, attaching a magnetic, remote-detonated C4 charge.
The figure stood up, turned around, and pulled back the hood.
It wasn't Marcus Sterling.
It wasn't Dominic.
It was a man I hadn't seen in five years—my former head of logistics, Julian Vance, who had supposedly fled the country after embezzling three million dollars from our accounts.
“Julian?” I breathed, the pistol wavering for a fraction of a second. “I thought he was in South America.”
“He was,” Marcus said smoothly. “Until I bought him back. Julian didn't embezzle that money, Vincent—he took the fall so you wouldn't look too closely at the logistics manifests. And when you decided to walk away from the business last month, Julian came back to finish what your father’s legacy started.”
Marcus leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine with venomous clarity.
“You thought you were the king, Vincent. You thought you could build a clean life on blood money and walk away scot-free while the rest of us took the risks. The bomb wasn't meant to kill Sofia—it was meant to destroy your car while you were sitting in it. She just happened to take your place because you stayed behind to finish a phone call.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Not a conspiracy among my closest friends. Not Dominic. Not my father-in-law.
A ghost from my past, bought and paid for by a coward hiding behind an executive desk.
“And where is Julian now?” I asked, my voice dangerously low.
“Waiting at the private airstrip three miles north,” Marcus smiled, checking his watch. “In about ten minutes, his private jet lifts off for Zurich. And unless you want the federal government to tear your remaining estate apart brick by brick, you’re going to let me walk out of this house and join him.”
Dominic looked at me, his eyes dark and resolute. “Boss, don't listen to him. The dead-man’s switch is a bluff. He doesn't have the routing codes.”
“He’s not bluffing,” a frail, steady voice interrupted from the doorway.
We all turned.
Arthur Vance stepped into the library, holding his cane in one hand and a heavy, encrypted satellite communicator in the other. He pressed a button on the side of the device, and a green status light flickered solid.
“I intercepted Julian’s communications forty-eight hours ago,” Arthur said, a grim, satisfied smile touching his lips. “His private jet isn't lifting off for Zurich, Marcus. The FAA grounded his flight at my personal request thirty minutes ago. And federal marshals are currently boarding his hangar.”
Marcus’s calm, smug facade instantly cracked. The color drained completely from his face as he lunged forward toward the laptop.
“You lying old—!”
Before his fingers could hit the delete key, Dominic crossed the room in two massive strides, slammed his hand down on the laptop lid, and hauled Marcus out of the chair by his collar, slamming him hard against the oak desk.
I didn't shoot him. I didn't have to.
I walked over, holstered my weapon, and hit the master broadcast switch on the media console, feeding our secure connection straight to the federal task force waiting outside the gates.
May you like
“Marcus Sterling,” I said softly, looking down into the terrified eyes of the man who had tried to destroy my family. “Your flight’s been canceled.”
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