Chapter 35 - Bloodline of Monaco
The crimson glow of the emergency lights painted Thomas Vanderberg's face like a portrait of a ghost returned from the grave. Outside, the rain lashed violently against the shattered patio doors, sending a chill mist crawling across the hardwood floor.
"Step away from the stairs, Thomas," Tyler said, his voice flat and terrifyingly steady. "You don't care about the dynasty. You never did. If you wanted Julian dead, you had two decades to pull the trigger yourself."
"Julian was already dead the day he allowed that parasitic socialite Denise into his bed," Thomas sneered, his accent curling around the syllables with venomous European precision. "He gave up our legacy for American high society. For golf clubs, political galas, and fraudulent real estate developments. But you, Tyler... you are a fascinating curiosity. The bastard son Julian hid away until his own blood betrayed him."
"I am not a bastard," Tyler answered coldly. "And I am not my father."
"No," Thomas conceded, descending three more steps until he stood halfway down the staircase, leaning casually against the polished banister. "You have your mother’s stubborn jawline. And Clara... the girl from the working-class avenues who shattered the entire Vanderberg facade with a single folder of photocopied bank transfers at a Sunday barbecue." He looked down at me, his icy blue eyes narrowing in genuine admiration. "I watched the livestream from Zurich, my dear. You have no idea how much champagne I drank that evening celebrating Denise’s ruin."
"If you hate Denise, why attack us?" I demanded, stepping out from behind Tyler's shoulder, refusing to cower. "Denise is in a maximum-security cell waiting for trial. The company is under federal receivership. There is nothing left here for you to steal."
"Steal?" Thomas laughed—a low, melodic sound that sent shivers down my spine. "You think Julian built that empire with American mortgages? You poor, naive child. Every skyscraper, every maritime logistics line, every shell corporation registered under Vanderberg Enterprises was funded by the sovereign gold bonds our grandfather took out of Vienna in 1944."
Marcus slowly stepped out from the kitchen doorway, his phone hidden behind his forearm, fingers rapidly tapping out a silent distress code to the federal marshals. "The Monaco protocol," Marcus whispered, his eyes wide with sudden realization. "The unlisted accounts Julian never let anyone audit. They weren't offshore tax shelters... they were indemnity trusts co-signed by a living heir."
"Precisely, Mr. Miller," Thomas said smoothly, acknowledging Marcus with a curt nod. "Julian could only touch the interest. To liquidate the sovereign principal—nearly nine hundred million euros—both brothers had to sign. For twenty-five years, Julian kept me trapped in the shadows, using forged death certificates to freeze my portion while he bled the dividends dry to pay for Denise's obscene vanity projects."
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"And now Julian is gone," Tyler said, his weapon never wavering an inch. "Which leaves me as the sole legal executor."
"Which leaves you as the only signature standing between me and the recovery of my birthright," Thomas corrected. He reached into his coat and produced a thick, parchment document sealed with red wax. "Sign the international release, Tyler. Relinquish the sovereign principal, and I walk out that broken door into the night. You keep this house. You keep your quiet, domestic bliss with your pregnant bride and your newborn child. Refuse... and I take everything down with me."
