Page 100 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“The financial arrangements were complex, yes, but hardly?—”
“Found your little financial games six months ago,” I started, letting my voice carry so everyone could hear. “Systematic theft disguised as portfolio management. Clever work, hiding that much money for so long. Must have taken real skill to rob us blind for decades.”
Harrison straightened in his chair despite the zip ties, slipping into the role he'd perfected over twenty years. “Adrian,you're misunderstanding the complexity of modern financial management.” His voice carried that same condescending tone he'd used in countless board meetings. “The global markets have experienced unprecedented volatility. Currency fluctuations alone required immediate portfolio adjustments to prevent catastrophic losses.”
He paused, tilting his head like a professor addressing a particularly slow student. “The diversification into offshore instruments wasn't theft—it was prudent risk management. Your family's assets needed protection from regulatory scrutiny and market instability. I've been safeguarding your inheritance, not stealing it.”
“Safeguarding,” I repeated, letting the knife catch the light.
“Precisely. The Turner situation, for instance—their territorial expansion created operational inefficiencies that impacted our revenue streams. By temporarily reallocating funds through secondary channels, I minimized exposure while maintaining cash flow.” Harrison's eyes never left mine, still believing his silver tongue could save him. “Every allocation was temporary, pending reinvestment once market conditions stabilized. Basic portfolio theory, really.”
Professional to the bitter fucking end.
“The Turner brothers were a nice touch,” I continued, selecting my favorite knife from the spread Dominic had laid out. The blade caught the harsh light, designed for extracting truth and causing maximum pain. “Setting up a rival crew while skimming our take. Operational losses made perfect cover for your theft.”
“Market forces require adaptive strategies,” Harrison replied smoothly, like we were in a boardroom instead of standing in a pool of his men's blood. “Temporary setbacks are inevitable in dynamic economic environments.”
Christ, the man's dedication to his act was almost admirable. Almost.
Harrison's mask finally slipped when I showed him Hayes' intelligence report. Government investigation details, corruption evidence, political manipulation that went way beyond simple criminal enterprise.
“You'd been buying judges,” I stated, letting the knife trace patterns across his expensive suit. “Regulatory authorities. Cops. Infrastructure that went beyond criminal empire into running the whole fucking system.”
The blade parted his shirt like silk, drawing thin red lines that seeped through white cotton. His breathing quickened, first crack in that legendary composure.
“You think too small, Adrian,” Harrison finally admitted, dropping the act as reality set in. “Your father understood the bigger picture before his unfortunate resistance made elimination necessary.”
There it was. Confirmation of what I had suspected for months, delivered with casual indifference that made murder sing in my veins.
“Criminal enterprises were merely the accumulation phase,” Harrison continued, apparently deciding full confession was his best remaining play. “Real power required controlling the government itself. Your father's sentimental attachment to old methods became a liability to our broader objectives.”
The casual confession of my parents' murder hit me like a physical blow, confirmation still delivering unexpected impact that threatened my operational focus.
“You ordered my parents killed,” I repeated, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that made hardened killers back away. The knife in my hand suddenly felt inadequate for what this bastard deserved.
Harrison's smile held genuine condescension despite hisposition, like a teacher explaining obvious concepts to a thick student.
“Your father became a liability,” he said with analytical detachment, describing a business decision rather than the torture and murder of people I had loved. “His resistance to certain political arrangements threatened our infrastructure development. Removal became organizationally necessary.”
“And the fire?” I asked, feeling control slip as rage built toward the breaking point. “My scars? Were those 'organizationally necessary' too?”
“Intended distraction for the authorities,” Harrison explained with the same clinical tone, like discussing the weather rather than burning a child alive. “Evidence elimination combined with creating a sympathetic narrative. The surviving child providing succession legitimacy while remaining controllable through trauma response.”
Each word was another nail in his coffin, another reason his death would be neither quick nor clean. The revelation that my childhood torture had been calculated rather than collateral damage made something fundamental break in my chest.
“Your grandfather understood pragmatic necessity,” Harrison added, apparently determined to destroy every foundation I had built my life on.
The mention of my grandfather's involvement shattered what control I had left. The knife clattered to concrete as my hands closed around Harrison's throat with killing intent, twenty years of manipulation culminating in the destruction of my last family loyalty.
“You lying piece of shit,” I snarled, squeezing as his face turned purple. “My grandfather would never?—”
“Your grandfather approved the operation personally,” Harrison gasped, somehow still managing superiority despite being strangled. “Who do you think provided the access codes?Security protocols? Your parents trusted family completely. Made killing them remarkably simple.”
The words hit like bullets, designed for maximum psychological damage. Every memory of my grandfather's guidance, every lesson in violence and control, every moment of supposed love and protection, all potentially compromised by complicity in my parents' murder.
Just as my security team moved to stop me from killing Harrison before getting maximum intelligence, gunshots echoed through the warehouse from multiple directions. The sound was wrong, not the controlled bursts of my teams but sustained automatic fire from weapons that shouldn't have been there.
The trap had become an ambush, Harrison's smile widening despite my hands crushing his windpipe as secondary forces breached the killing ground with military precision.