Inheritance ✔

Chapter 13 - Counterstrike

Renzo Hart

The moment Laurier walked off the studio floor, she didn't say anything.

Not to the network staff. Not to the assistant fussing over her mic. Not to the two men from her board who stood in the hallway, pretending to smile.

She kept walking—heels sharp against the marble tile, posture tall, expression unreadable. I followed behind her, just two steps to the left, like I always did. Like I always would.

She didn't stop until we reached the elevator.

The doors closed. Only then did she speak.

"Did it air clean?"

I checked my phone. My fingers moved fast. "Stream's clean. All stations carried it live. Social media already clipped the ending. It's trending."

"Good." She exhaled slowly. "Any immediate response?"

"Not yet. Dagon's team will need a few hours to pivot. They didn't expect you to hit back this soon."

"Let's not give them time."

She turned toward me.

Eyes sharp. Unblinking.

I knew that look.

It wasn't fear anymore.

It was war.

"Let's bury him," she said.

The elevator dinged.

We walked out.

Thirty minutes later, we were back in the penthouse. Laurier kicked off her heels and tossed her phone onto the marble countertop. The tension hadn't left her shoulders yet.

"Give me the list," she said, tying her hair up as she moved into the living room.

I pulled the folder from my messenger bag. A thin, black dossier with three labeled tabs. I handed it over without a word.

She opened it.

Three shell corporations. All tied—quietly—to Dagon's real money. Not the charity-fronted investments he paraded in public. These were the foundations of his empire: the companies that moved funds for bribes, laundered profits, and bought silence.

"Macau. Kuala Lumpur. Taguig," she muttered, scanning.

"He's been rerouting money through dormant accounts since 2019. Took me a while to backtrace the signatures—he's good at hiding ownership—but not good enough."

She looked up. "How clean is your proof?"

"Clean enough for a leak. Not enough for prosecution."

"That's fine. We don't need court. We need doubt."

"Exactly."

She sat down on the edge of the couch, eyes narrowing.

"He thinks he's untouchable now," she said. "Because he's wearing a suit instead of a bulletproof vest."

"That's the mistake. You can take the criminal out of the alley, but he'll still reek of blood."

A faint smile curved at her lips. The first I'd seen all day.

She didn't say thank you.

She didn't need to.

By midnight, the leaks were live.

Not on the major outlets yet—too risky to trace. I used secondary blogs, finance whisper networks, and two underground forums I hadn't touched in years. I let the stories circulate where Dagon wouldn't see them coming—until they grew loud enough to be undeniable.