CHAPTER 4

"Oh, for God’s sake, look at Julian!" Carl’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a razor. He lunged, his fingers digging into Marcus Jr.’s bicep. "Isn't it a miracle? We need to get inside, get the specialists on the line! You have to help me with the gala. It has to be legendary!"

Carl flashed that high-gloss, curated smile. The split second of mercy in Marcus Jr.’s eyes flatlined. He turned his back on John to focus on the biological heir.

The last embers of hope in John’s chest went cold.

He didn't stick around to see if a single one of them would look back. He knew the rhythm of this house by now. He just kept walking, counting the heartbeats until the fifteen-day clock ran out.

"Why the hell are you crying now?" Carl’s voice drifted over his shoulder, dripping with that artificial sweetness that made John’s stomach turn. "You were fine a minute ago, John. Julian just got the best news of his life. Are you really trying to leak a few tears to steal the moment? It’s pathetic, don't you think?"

The lingering pity in the brothers’ faces vanished. Marcus Jr. pulled his hand back as if John were a leper. They crowded around Julian, their broad shoulders forming a literal wall of muscle. John was on the outside looking in. Again.

He didn't wait for the lecture. He turned and bolted for the stairs, his boots thudding against the mahogany. His lungs felt like they were filled with hot sand. He just wanted the door of his suite to click shut. The "Crown Prince" suite they’d built for him when he was a kid.

He slammed the door open. The room was a slaughterhouse.

His mahogany desk was flipped. His architectural sketches were ground into the silk rug. Pillows were disemboweled, feathers drifting like snow. His tailored suits were piled in the center of the floor like a bonfire waiting to happen.

"What the f**k happened in here?" John gasped, spinning around.

Carl sauntered in. He leaned against the frame, arms folded over his chest, looking like he owned the air. "Oh, good, you’re here. I was just telling the help I love the southern light in this room. I’m moving in. Makes sense, right? The blood heir gets the blood heir’s suite."

He flicked his wrist toward the hall, shooing a ghost. "I already told them to clear out your junk. You’re headed for the basement. You know, with the enforcers and the unranked muscle."

"This is my room!" John’s voice cracked, a jagged sound in the ruins. "The Don and Brooks gave this to me. You can’t just—"

"I can do whatever I want," Carl snapped. The sweetness died. His eyes went dark, predatory. "You’re a blank, John. In this Syndicate, power is the only currency. Without the instinct, you’re just a servant who doesn't do any work. Actually, you're worse. You're a drain."

"What’s the shouting about?" Marcus Jr. demanded. He stepped into the wreck, Ethan and Julian right behind him.

"John is making a scene," Carl pouted. His bottom lip trembled with practiced precision. "I just thought, since I’m taking over the family accounts and he’s... well... it made sense to swap. But he started screaming at me."

The brothers didn't even look at the destroyed sketches or the flipped desk. They just looked at John with a heavy, freezing disappointment.

"Move your shit, John," Marcus Jr. ordered. "Stop turning every day into a war. Carl needs the space to prep for the merger. Just get downstairs and stay out of the way."

John froze. A memory hit him like a physical punch to the throat. He was six years old, shivering in a thin coat. His three brothers had led him to this exact door. They’d spent weeks choosing the paint, making sure the lock was secure.

“This is your sanctuary, John,” Julian had told him then, his one good eye bright with pride. “Only you live here. We’ll make sure the world stays outside.”

Now, those same men were the ones throwing him into the dark.

"Fine," John whispered.

He bent down to lift the heavy wooden box. It was awkward, the splintered wood digging into his palms. He stumbled toward the door, his breathing shallow. Not one of them moved. No one offered a hand or even held the door open. They just stood like stone statues, watching him struggle with the weight.

As he passed Carl, a foot shot out.

John tripped. The box flew, hitting the floor with a sickening crack. Jewelry and old photos scattered across the hardwood. He saw the dried laurel leaf from his childhood—the one Julian gave him after his first successful target practice. It was crushed under Carl’s designer shoe.

"Oh! How clumsy!" Carl cried.

Carl leaned down as if to help. As their heads drew close, he slammed a mental link into John’s mind—a psychic pressure that felt like oil sliding over John’s brain.

I’m taking every goddamn thing, Carl hissed mentally. His voice was a serrated blade in John’s skull. I took the Don. I took the brothers. I took your fiancé. Now I’ve got the room. I won't stop until you’re begging for scraps in the gutter.

John looked him dead in the eye. His face went completely vacant. "If you want it that bad," he said aloud, his voice steady for the first time, "take it. Take all of it."

He scrambled to shove his broken life back into the box. He didn’t look at his brothers as he stood up. He didn't look back as he began the long descent. He passed the marble foyer, the scent of expensive dinners, and went down into the damp, concrete gut of the house.

The three brothers stood at the top of the stairs. For a second, silence hung heavy. Ethan shifted his weight, his brow furrowing as if a ghost of a conscience was trying to wake up. He actually took a half-step toward the stairs.

"Wait, guys!" Carl called out, snagging Marcus Jr.’s hand. "You promised to help me pick out the new upholstery! You can’t leave me with the mess John made!"

The flicker of guilt in their eyes died. It was drowned out by Carl’s voice. "Of course, Carl," Julian said. He turned his back on the basement stairs. "Let’s get you settled."

John reached the basement alone. It was a tomb of grey concrete and shadows. The air tasted of mildew and cold iron. His new "room" was a cage with one high, barred window near the ceiling.

He sat on the thin cot, pulling his knees to his chest. Something rustled in the shadows—a rat scurried across the floor.

Before his "beast" vanished, he’d never been afraid of the dark. He was John Mark, the strategist. The golden son. But now, he felt small. Fragile. The inner fire was just... out.

He leaned his head against the cold stone. It didn't make sense. Everything had shifted the day Carl appeared. His power hadn't just faded; it was like someone had pinched the wick of a candle. And Carl’s "gift" was a mirror image. He had the same tactical foresight, the same predatory calm that had once belonged to John.

Gifts were unique. They were blood-coded. How could two heirs have the exact same soul?

A jagged thought cut through the fog of his grief.

What if his fire hadn't just gone out? What if Carl had reached inside and stolen it?