Chapter 429
Charles Kingston slammed into Mike’s office, shoulder first, blowing past the secretary’s outstretched arm and the thin line of authority she tried to hold.
His breath came in short bursts, his face flushed with adrenaline.
“Mike!” he barked, voice shaking with excitement. “I killed Alex. I killed Gilbert Guise’s murderer p>
The secretary’s composure cracked for only a second. She lowered her head, her tone crisp and respectful. “Sir, I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen p>
Mike, seated behind his wide oak desk, didn’t raise his voice.
He paused his phone call with a simple, controlled motion, thumb pressing gently on the receiver.
“Hold on,” he said into the receiver. Then, turning to Debora with that smug little half-grin, he added, “It’s fine, Debora. It’s Charles Kingston – the legend himself. Rules don’t apply to him, remember p>
Then his attention shifted fully to Charles, his tone smooth, precise, professional.
“Charles,” he said evenly, “I’m still on a call. Please give me a moment. Take a seat on the sofa. If you’d like something to drink, just ask Debora p>
Charles dropped onto the worn couch and felt something hot and dizzy behind his ribs — excitement and the sick relief of a man whose last lifeline had snapped back into place.
Since the Los Angeles mess his accounts had been frozen.
But with Gilbert Guise’s will — with the money he could inherit now – he saw himself climbing straight past debt into power.
Governor of Paris, he thought. Everything. He would own the city and everything in it.
Charles didn’t notice Mike’s fingers trembling as he jabbed out a quick message: “Charles Kingston is here — securing the Guise will p>
Mike slid the phone back into his pocket, forced a calm smile, and acted as if nothing had happened.
He returned to his desk, folding his hands on the blotter. “So. You killed Alexander Leonhart p>
“Yes,” Charles said, almost laughing. The laugh came out thin. “Yes, I did p>
“Do you have proof p>
Charles bristled. “I killed him. What proof do you need p>
Mike didn’t hurry. He leaned forward, “His body. A photo. A video. Anything that ties this to you p>
Charles’ grin thinned. He’d been so caught up in the rush he hadn’t thought past the deed.
“I stabbed him — right in the chest, the heart. Blood poured out. He’s dead, Mike. There’s no coming back from that p>
“Still,” Mike said, “I can’t release the will without proof p>
“You have to!” Charles slammed his fist on the table. The flat thud echoed in the small room. “I killed him. What else do you want from me p>
Mike watched him; he watched the hunger, the way ambition had warped Charles’ face into something sharper, crazier.
“Okay,” he said finally. “When did you do it p>
“Vancouver slums,” Charles said. “Near the new orphanage they just finished p>
Mike grabbed the receiver and barked, “Debora – pull anything on that orphanage in the Vancouver slum. Reports, emergency calls, suspicious deaths, anything. Now p>
“Yes, sir. Give me a few minutes,” came the brisk reply over the phone.
Mike pushed a cup of tea across to Charles. It steamed in the low light.
“Drink,” he said. “Relax. If you actually killed him, and we can prove it, Gilbert Guise’s money becomes yours p>
Charles took the cup with a hand that trembled — not from cold but from an adrenaline that tasted like victory and fear at once.
A link pinged on Mike’s phone. He tapped it and the feed pushed to the wall
screen.
A bulletin filled the display.
“Breaking: Vancouver Orphanage reports a murder. Charles Kingston is wanted. He fled the scene after killing Alexander Leonhart victim stabbed in the heart – pronounced beyond help.” s
The video cut to chaos: paramedics loading Alex onto a gurney, Josephine bent over him, wailing. Her sobs tore through the footage like a live wire.
Mike didn’t wait. He dialed the hospital with a steady hand. “Doctor Winters – this is Mike. We need a status on Alexander Leonhart. Is he still alive p>
“I’ll contact the field team and get you a report right away,” Doctor Winters replied, clinical and precise. “Stand by p>
Minutes later the phone rang. “Mike, this is Winters,” the doctor said without preamble.
“The victim was stabbed in the heart. Cardiac arrest on scene. No pulse on arrival. He’s been without signs of life for hours. There’s nothing to indicate survival p>
“Understood. Thank you.” Mike ended the call and set the phone down like he was closing a ledger.
“So you finally pulled it off,” Mike muttered, crossing the room to the iron safe inset in the wall. His fingers danced over the keypad. The tumbler clicked, and the door gave.
He carried out a battered suitcase and set it on the table. Inside sat a compact terminal and a screen.
“This is Gilbert’s will,” Mike said, voice flat, “Everything’s virtualized Access is locked to retinal seans and fingerprint Verification Only the rightful biometrics will open it.” s
“Come on,” Charles breathed, barely containing himself. Gratitude and raw hunger ran together in him. “Give it to me p>
Mike entered the password. The camera whirred and framed Charles’s face.
The terminal swept across his irises, then asked for a print. Charles pressed his thumb to the pad like a man signing away the last of his restraint.
“Done,” Mike said after a beat. The screen blinked, then filled with folders and numbers. “Everything Gilbert owned — it’s yours now. Congratulations p>
Charles stood there, palms damp, the warmth of victory settling over him. Outside, the city moved on, but inside that small room a new order had just been assigned.
The screen blinked to life, dumping rows of numbers and property titles across the monitor.
The account read like a king’s ledger-assets, holdings, virtual deeds. Charles skimmed it once and felt his heart trip.
Tens, then hundreds of billions stared back at him.
He grinned until his face hurt, snapped the suitcase shut, and shoved it under his
arm.
“Thanks, Mike,” he said, voice syrup-smooth. “I won’t forget this p>
He barreled for the door and slammed it behind him, not hearing Mike’s soft, almost pleading call “Please… just forget me p>
Outside, the city air tasted like possibility.
Charles walked like a man who owned a continent. “Billions,” he breathed. “Governor of Paris. Maybe a king.” He laughed at the thought, high and sharp.
Two hulking men suddenly stepped out of the shadows without a sound.
They wrapped heavy hands around his arms and squeezed. Charles spun, reached for outrage, but their grip was iron. A boxy van rolled up. The men shoved him inside like luggage and slammed the door.
The van lurched away.
“What the hell are you doing?” Charles barked, pounding the metal. “Do you know who you’re messing with? I’m Charles Kingston, the governor of Paris p>
Silence answered him, thick and controlled. Then the screen in the van lit, and Bella’s face filled it-pale, furious, eyes burning red.
“Charles Kingston,” she said. “I held myself together after you killed my father. I kept calm. But you killed Alex my love. How dare you kill him p>
Charles barked a laugh—hollow, furious. “Bella—this is your game? Don’t you know who I am? I run Paris. Don’t you dare touch me p>
Bella’s expression hardened. “Your title doesn’t change what you are. You murdered my father, the governor of Vermont. You murdered my love. Why shouldn’t I kill you p>
“No, you are right. I’m not going to kill you,” Bella sobbed, voice raw and broken. “I’ll do something worse than death, I’ll make you suffer for
Alex. I’ll have my revenge.
belongs to s
“Take his eyeballs. Cut out his tongue. Take his hands.” Each command fell like a
verdict.