Sweet Hatred
Chapter 256: Brotherly threats

Chapter 256: Brotherly threats

The tension cracked like a whip.

Eyes darted. Forked tongues licked dry lips.

I didn’t even look up.

Why indeed?

Why would my father send both his sons to a room that could only afford one king?

It wasn’t oversight. It wasn’t coincidence.

It was a test.

Andrew was here because our father was trying to provoke me, trying to rattle me. Or worse, grooming a threat.

My voice was calm, deadpan and lethal.

"I wasn’t aware this meeting was about the Roman family’s internal politics," I said flatly, finally raising my head.

My stare sliced across the room.

Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seat, some clearing their throats.

The idiot shut his mouth instantly.

Andrew chuckled, sliding into the empty chair like this was all a fun family reunion. He glanced briefly at me but I caught it.

The moment was over. The sharks resumed their feeding. But I wasn’t watching the table anymore. I was watching my estranged little brother.

The meeting went on and eventually,

The boardroom emptied like a drained glass of expensive scotch.

One by one, the billionaires peeled off with tight smiles and silent prayers, weighed down by fear and whispers. I stayed. So did he.

Andrew.

He leaned lazily against the chair, still nursing a glass of whatever-the-fuck the butler brought him, maybe something sweet and predictable.

"Impressive, as always," Andrew said, eyes tracking the city skyline outside. "You barely spoke, and yet everyone left like you handed down judgment. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were father himself."

I didn’t respond. I was already halfway through decoding the subtext in his tone.

He wasn’t here to stroke my ego.

He was here to prod the lion’s ribs.

"But," he continued, voice all syrup and silk, "don’t get too comfortable, brother. You know how unpredictable Father can be. One slip, and a seat that seems promised can vanish overnight. Poof! Just like air."

I finally looked at him. Let him see the exact shade of disinterest in my eyes.

He smiled.

It wasn’t done.

"Oh," he added casually, swirling his drink, "and what a shame about the vice president at the Gala. He was such a loyal partner. The fact that he got shot so discreetly and it barely made the papers, masterful damage control. Almost like the entire incident was... expected. Sad really."

My smile bloomed like poison.

There it was, the crack, the loophole. _{f.(r)eewe/bnov\ll.com}

Because the vice president’s involvement had been buried deep, beneath confidentiality contracts and off-record international security. Even the guests hadn’t known who was shot and only the sound of gunshots. The only people who knew the exact hit had succeeded?

Me. My inner circle. And the fucking culprit.

So why would Andrew know... unless he was part of it?

Fucking idiot.

He couldn’t help himself. Just had to prove he knew more than the rest. Just like always.

I stood slowly, adjusting the cuff of my suit jacket, each motion deliberate.

He stayed seated, acting nonchalant, but I saw the flicker of tension in his jaw.

I stepped closer, casting a long shadow over his lean frame.

"You know," I said softly, smiling like a good older brother should, "if you manage to snatch the Roman inheritance from me, then honestly... you deserve it."

He looked up, surprised. Maybe flattered.

I leaned in.

My breath was cold against his ear as I whispered, "Since you know so much, I hope you liked the gift I sent you."

He stiffened.

I patted his shoulder.

"The last infiltrator. The one we caught... barely alive," I added, eyes glittering. "I made sure he was delivered somewhere nice. Intact enough to talk. You know, family courtesy."

I stepped back, straightened my jacket, and gave him a final, polite smile.

"Let me know how the interrogation goes."

I turned to leave.

But Andrew’s voice, low, smooth, perfectly timed, cut through the air like a wire.

"You know... it’s always the toughest things that bleed the most when they break."

I stopped.

Still. Breath locked in my lungs.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move from the chair. Just swirled the last of his drink, watching the liquid spiral like he was admiring art.

That motherfucker knew.

There was only one thing in my life I kept wrapped in a secret. One I’d let no one touch, no one name, no one fucking breathe near without my permission.

And Andrew had just pointed a loaded gun in her direction, with nothing more than a smile.

"Veins. Skin. Secrets," he continued, almost lazily. "You’d be surprised how fast they unravel... when you know where to cut."

I didn’t turn around.

Didn’t need to.

Because I felt it.

He knew.

That wasn’t a bluff. That wasn’t an accident. That was Andrew telling me, in no uncertain terms, that he’d found her, or worse, that he’d found someone who knew enough.

My fingers curled at my sides, the world narrowing to a single point of heat behind my ribs.

But I made myself breathe.

Once.

Then I turned.

He met my stare with a placid, polite expression, the same mask I’d worn for years. I should’ve been proud.

I wasn’t.

I was murderous.

"You touch what’s mine," I said, voice razor-thin, "and I will burn every blood tie we share."

Andrew smiled.

"I’m not the one who left her exposed."

My jaw ticked.

He lifted his glass in a mock toast, eyes glittering like ice under sun.

"Cheers, big brother."

I walked back.

Slow. Measured. Like a predator retracing its steps not because it was hungry but because the kill had dared twitch.

Andrew didn’t move.

But his smile thinned.

"I don’t think you understand the nature of this game," I murmured, voice velvet and rot.

I leaned down, lips near his temple like a secret only monsters whispered.

"If you even breathe wrong near her, brother... there won’t be a body left to bury."

His throat bobbed. Just slightly. But I saw it.

I straightened.

Smiled.

"Do send my regards to whoever told you her name."