Chapter 3 - The Bloodlines of GreedBullets shattered the remaining glass windows, tearing through drywall and plush furniture.
Marcus grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down behind the heavy marble kitchen island just as a hail of gunfire swept through the living room. I cradled Leo against my chest, shielding his tiny ears from the deafening roars of automatic weapons.
"We have to get to the basement!" Marcus yelled over the chaos. "There's a storm cellar exit that leads to the woods behind your estate!"
"Who are these people?!" I screamed, terror gripping my lungs.
"Mercenaries hired by Philip's syndicate creditors!" Marcus shouted back, firing three precision shots back through the smoke, sending one of the masked intruders crashing to the floor. "Philip didn't just owe gambling money to casinos—he took out loans from the Eastern European cartel using the Miller family assets as collateral! Now that you froze the accounts, the cartel is executing a scorched-earth policy!"
We crawled frantically down the hallway toward the basement door. Gunfire tore through the ceiling above us, raining plaster down like snow. Marcus kicked open the cellar door, pushing me down the dark wooden steps ahead of him.
Just as he was about to step down, a heavy boot kicked the door open violently. Philip stood at the top of the stairs, holding a smoking pistol, his face smeared with grease and blood, his eyes utterly insane.
"Give me the key, Marcus!" Philip shrieked, his voice cracking with madness. "Give me the key or I’ll kill her and the bastard brat! The cartel will cut my throat by midnight if I don't give them the access codes inside that Swiss box!"
"You sold your own brother out to monsters, Philip!" Marcus roared.
"Thomas was never my brother!" Philip yelled, aiming his gun directly at Marcus's chest. "He was a bastard thief who stole my father's legacy! He deserves to rot in whatever hole he's hiding in!"
BANG!
A shot echoed in the enclosed basement stairway.
I screamed, closing my eyes—but it wasn't Marcus who fell.
Philip blinked in shock, dropping his weapon as a bloody blossom expanded across his crisp white shirt collar. He tumbled backward down the cellar stairs, crashing violently onto the concrete floor at our feet, his eyes wide and lifeless.
Standing at the top of the cellar stairs, holding a small silver revolver, was Margaret.
Her designer black lace dress was torn, her hair unraveled, and her eyes dead. She looked down at her youngest son’s corpse without a single tear.
"He was always weak," Margaret said coldly, her voice devoid of human emotion. "A pathetic, impulsive fool who ruined everything I built. He brought the cartel to my doorstep."
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She lowered the silver gun, aiming it straight at my forehead.
"Hand over the baby, Blair," Margaret commanded quietly. "Thomas will surface if I have his son. Hand him to me, and I’ll let you walk out of here alive."
