Chapter 7 - THE FINAL BETRAYAL"What do you mean?" I asked, eyeing the black barrel of the gun, my mind racing. "Margaret died of pulmonary fibrosis!"
"Margaret died because I turned off her oxygen machine," Emily said coldly, stepping forward with a chilling, vacant smile. "She started feeling guilty, Ryan. She wanted to tell you the truth. She was going to write you a letter confessing everything. I couldn't let her ruin what Victor and I built."
I looked at Emily—the woman I had held in my arms, the woman I had promised to love forever—and saw nothing human left inside her. She was a sociopath, driven entirely by greed and power.
"You killed your own mother?" I whispered in horror.
"She was weak," Emily snapped. "Just like you are."
Victor raised the silenced pistol, aligning the sights with my forehead. "End of the line, nephew. We'll dump your car in Lake Michigan. A tragic suicide brought on by severe, untreated depression over your long-dead wife. The police will buy it instantly."
CLICK.
The sound came from the heavy front door of the penthouse.
Victor’s eyes flicked briefly toward the foyer.
In that split second of distraction, I lunged forward with everything I had. I tackled Victor around the waist, slamming his heavy body into the quartz kitchen island.
THUMP!
The gun discharged, a suppressed pfft sound echoing through the room as a bullet shattered the floor-to-ceiling glass window. Cold night air and the deafening roar of wind rushed into the penthouse.
Victor cursed, swinging his heavy elbow down onto my back. Pain exploded across my spine, but I refused to let go. I grabbed his wrist, driving it into the sharp edge of the counter until he screamed and dropped the weapon.
The gun skidded across the hardwood floor toward Emily.
"Emily! Grab it!" Victor roared, wrestling me to the floor and digging his thumbs into my throat.
I gagged, air trapped in my windpipe, my vision blacking out around the edges. I looked over to see Emily dive for the gun. She snatched it off the floor, rack-checking the slide like a professional killer, and aimed it right at us.
"Shoot him!" Victor gasped, choking me harder. "Shoot him now!"
Emily stood over us, her arms rigid, the gun pointed straight at my face.
Then... her eyes slowly shifted from me to Victor.
"Emily?" Victor stammered, his grip on my neck loosening slightly as he registered the change in her expression. "What are you doing? Shoot him!"
"Fifty million dollars split two ways is twenty-five million," Emily whispered, her voice chillingly detached. "Fifty million split one way... is fifty million."
"Emily, no—!" Victor screamed.
PFFT! PFFT!
Two muffled gunshots rang out. Victor’s body went limp on top of me, blood pooling rapidly across his white dress shirt. He collapsed onto his side, his eyes wide and lifeless, staring into the dark Chicago sky.
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I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, hyperventilating, pressing my back against the far wall as Emily slowly turned the smoking gun back toward me.
"You always were a sweet boy, Ryan," she sighed, her finger tightening on the trigger. "Too bad you didn't just stay home."
