Chapter 3 - The Traitor WithinI left Elena locked safely inside my master suite with strict orders not to open the door for anyone—not even Marcus—and strode down the sweeping staircase toward the ground-floor security bunker.
The air in the bunker smelled of hot electronics and ozone. Three computer monitors flickered with live feeds of the snow-swept perimeter gates, the subterranean garages, and the endless corridors of the sprawling estate.
Marcus stood over the main console, his face pale under the fluorescent lights. "The mainframe was accessed locally using a master override code, Boss. Only three people in this entire compound possess that code: you, me, and Julian."
Julian. My head of internal logistics, a man who had served my father before me, whose loyalty I had never once had reason to question.
"Where is Julian?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
"He called in sick an hour ago," Marcus muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Said he had severe food poisoning. He left the compound before dawn via the south service gate."
A cold, heavy realization settled over my chest. Julian wasn't sick. He was running. And if Julian had access to the security feeds, he was the one who had slipped the poisoned tea into Elena’s quarters and dropped the note on my nightstand, attempting to frame her or flush out my reactions.
"Track his phone," I ordered, slamming my hand down on the steel console. "Find out which syndicate he’s running to. And pull every financial record tied to his offshore accounts for the last six years. I want to know exactly how much the Russians paid him to betray my brother."
May you like
"On it, Boss," Marcus said, flying across the keyboard.
As I watched the digital maps light up across the screens, my mind raced back to the master suite upstairs. Elena was up there, alone, sick, and unknowingly caught in the crosshairs of a dying man's desperate endgame. Julian knew too much. If he realized his cover was blown, he wouldn't hesitate to send a cleaner back to the estate to tie up loose ends—and anyone who had seen too much, including a certain exhausted housekeeper, would be a primary target.
