Chapter 4 - The Viper's Nest
The silence in the library was deafening. Every pair of eyes in the room snapped toward me. The mocking smirks, the arrogant superiority—it all melted away, replaced by a primal, predatory desperation.
“Elias,” Uncle Robert said, stepping around the table, his massive frame casting a shadow over my chair. His tone was suddenly sickeningly sweet, the voice of a man trying to coax a steak from a stray dog. “You cashed the check? That’s fantastic news, my boy. See? The family is still solvent.”
“Solvent?” I echoed, gripping the armrests of my chair. “That check was made out to me, Robert.”
“Don’t be naive,” my mother snapped, dropping the grieving widow act entirely. She marched toward me, her heels clicking aggressively on the hardwood. “That money belongs to the Sterling estate. To us. You are going to wire that ten million into the corporate holdings account immediately. Robert needs it to finalize the offshore merger.”
I looked at these people—the people who had shunned me, belittled me, and left me drowning in medical debt while they vacationed in Saint-Tropez. Thomas’s words echoed in my mind: They killed him.
I stood up, pushing my chair back. “No.”
The word hung in the air like a gunshot.
“Excuse me?” Victoria hissed, her face contorting. “You selfish little brat. We are flat broke! Grandpa’s accounts are locked. If we don’t get that ten million to our investors by Friday, Robert is going to prison for fraud!”
“Then I guess Robert should start practicing making license plates,” I said coldly.
Uncle Robert lunged at me. He grabbed me by the collar of my suit, slamming me back against the mahogany bookshelf. Books tumbled to the floor around us. “Listen to me, you worthless piece of trash,” Robert spat, spittle flying into my face. “You are going to sign that money over, or I promise you, you won’t live to spend a single dime of it.”
Before I could react, the heavy oak doors of the library slammed open.
May you like
Thomas stood in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing his catering uniform. He was dressed in a sleek, tactical black suit, and in his right hand, he held a suppressed 9mm pistol pointed directly at Uncle Robert’s chest.
“Let the boy go, Robert,” Thomas said, his voice cold as ice. “Or the next thing you inherit will be a bullet.”
