THE BASTARD SON IS REAL HEIR

CHAPTER 3

The cemetery gates stood open, iron hinges creaking in the wind. Arjun led Vikram down the familiar path, past rows of marble headstones illuminated by moonlight. His mother's grave lay in a quiet corner, beneath an old oak tree she'd always loved.

But as they approached, Arjun stopped dead.

Three men surrounded his mother's tombstone. One was urinating on it while another swung a sledgehammer, chunks of marble flying with each blow. The third laughed, spray-painting crude words across the pristine surface.

"No!" Arjun's roar echoed through the cemetery.

The men turned, grinning. The one with the sledgehammer was built like a bull, his arms covered in prison tattoos. "Well, well. Look who finally showed up."

"Get away from there!" Arjun sprinted forward, rage blinding him to everything else.

"Or what?" The largest thug spat on the ground. "You'll cry? Maybe beg like the pathetic dog you are?"

"That's my mother's grave!"

"We know whose grave it is, you bastard." The spray-painter shook his can mockingly. "That's why we're here. Your new mommy sends her regards."

Arjun's fist connected with the man's jaw before he could think. The thug stumbled backward, surprised.

"You little—" The bull-like man swung his sledgehammer.

Arjun ducked, muscle memory taking over. His mother's voice echoed in his mind from countless training sessions: Move like water, strike like lightning. He swept the man's legs out, sending him crashing down.

"Boss, this kid knows how to fight!" the third thug shouted.

Vikram started forward, but his chief bodyguard, Ravi, held him back. "Sir, wait. Look."

Arjun moved with fluid precision, each strike calculated and devastating. The spray-painter lunged at him with a knife, but Arjun caught his wrist, twisted, and sent the blade clattering away. An elbow to the solar plexus dropped him gasping.

"That's the Harper combat style," Vikram whispered, his eyes wide. "Meera taught him."

The sledgehammer-wielding brute recovered, charging like an enraged bull. Arjun sidestepped, redirected the momentum, and drove his knee into the man's ribs. Something cracked. The thug howled, collapsing.

Within minutes, all three men lay groaning on the ground. Arjun stood over them, chest heaving, knuckles bleeding.

"You're done," he said coldly.

The spray-painter laughed through broken teeth. "You think this changes anything? You're still nobody. Just a discarded piece of trash."

"Mrs. Isabella Kyler paid us good money," the bull-like thug wheezed. "Said to desecrate this grave, make sure you knew your dead mother was worthless. Just like you."

"She said your whore mother got what she deserved," the third added with a cruel grin. "Dying like a dog in the street."

Arjun's fist rose again, but Vikram's voice cut through his rage.

"Enough." The old man's tone was arctic as he stepped forward. "You dare speak of my daughter that way?"

The thugs' expressions shifted as they noticed Vikram for the first time—the expensive suit, the obvious wealth, the six bodyguards materializing from the shadows like phantoms.

"Wait, who—" the spray-painter started.

"Ravi," Vikram said quietly. "Take them."

The bodyguards moved with military precision. The thugs were hauled to their feet, suddenly struggling against iron grips.

"No, wait! We were just doing a job!"

"Please, we didn't mean—"

"The Kyler family will make you pay for this! You can't touch us!"

Vikram's expression could have frozen hell itself. "The Kyler family?" His voice dripped with contempt. "Tell me, do you know who I am?"

"N-no, sir."

"I am Vikram Harper. The woman whose grave you desecrated was my daughter. This young man you were hired to torment is my grandson and sole heir to everything I possess."

The color drained from the thugs' faces.

"And the Kyler family?" Vikram's smile was terrifying. "They exist at my pleasure. Every dollar they've made in the past three months came from my investments. With a single phone call, I can reduce them to nothing."

"Sir, please! We didn't know! We were just following orders!"

"You knew enough to accept money to defile a dead woman's grave. You knew enough to insult her memory." Vikram turned away. "Ravi, take them to the estate. Make sure they understand the price of their choices. Permanently."

"No! NO! Please, we're sorry! We'll do anything!"

Their screams faded as the bodyguards dragged them toward waiting vehicles. Arjun watched, feeling nothing but cold satisfaction.

Vikram approached the damaged tombstone, his hand trembling as he touched the broken marble. "My Meera," he whispered. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there to protect you."

Arjun stood beside him. "She wouldn't want you to blame yourself."

"Perhaps not. But I will ensure those responsible pay." Vikram straightened, his grief transforming into steel determination. "The Kyler family did this. Isabella ordered it, but Vittorio allowed it. They all benefited from tormenting you."

"What will you do?"

"Not what I will do. What you will do." Vikram turned to face his grandson. "I could destroy them with a word. But that would teach you nothing. My daughter raised you in secret, taught you our ways, prepared you for something. Now I understand what."

"Grandfather—"

"You will reclaim what's yours, Arjun. Not as my grandson receiving charity, but as a Kyler who was wronged earning justice." Vikram's eyes blazed. "I will give you the tools. You will wield them. Consider it both revenge and your first test as the Harper heir."

Arjun looked at his mother's desecrated grave, then at his grandfather's expectant face. The boy who'd walked these streets hours ago—lost, broken, discarded—was dead.