Blackbird (A Stepbrother Romance #1)(62)

“What?” I blurt out.

“You’ve pieced it together by now, I’m sure. Yes, I killed your mother. Not with my own hands, of course. I always have clean hands. I tried to teach you that, but you never learned. So long I tried to teach you, and you picked up all the wrong lessons,” he shoots Victor a scathing glance. “You. I keep trying to turn you into an asset but you become a thorn in my side. I can’t have you exposing me or interfering anymore. If you’d cooperated I’d have let you have her. She’d no longer have been any use to me. Truth is, some sentimentality leads me to prefer not to dispose of my only blood, but practicality must overrule sentimentality. You both have to die. With you gone there will be no one to contest my daughter’s last will and testament or my status as her sole beneficiary.”

“You think you can just get away with killing your own daughter?”

“No,” he sighs. “You will. Or rather, you will commit murder suicide. You see, you were released from prison and began stalking and harassing her. I have evidence of this, of course. Once it was clear she’d moved on and rejected you, you lost your mind. Unable to cope, you broke in here, killed her, and set the house on fire.”

“Tragic,” Vitali adds, chuckling.

“I wait an appropriate time, of course, and after the necessary legal wrangling everything that belongs to your family is now mine.”

“Why?” Victor says. “What did we ever do to you?”

Vitali starts laughing.

Father… Martin doesn’t.

“You’re expecting me to deliver, what is it, a monologue, yes? I suppose I should tie you up over a shark tank and reveal my entire dastardly plan to take revenge on your family for some slight. No. You were an easy target. This is business. Sentimentality is for idiots.”

“You,” Victor barks, looking at Vitali. “He sent you to prison.”

“I make mistake. I do time. I get out. That is how game is played. Sorry boy. You were right not to trust me. Whoever said not to make friends inside, give good advice.”

“Let’s go,” Martin says, standing.

Vitali steps behind us, covering our backs with his gun. Martin keeps his distance, and leads us upstairs, to Victor’s father’s office. It still smells the same inside, the air stale from remaining closed up so long. I catch a whiff of a bitter, sulfurous smell and wrinkle my nose.

“That’s gas,” Victor says, softly.

Vitali’s men are carrying jerry cans through the house, slopping it everywhere. They throw it on the walls, soak it into the carpet, pour it down the bannisters. The smell is overpowering.

In the office, they take Victor and shove him down into his father’s chair. Vitali takes a heavy rope while Martin holds the gun on us, and winds it around Victor’s arms.

“They’ll know he was tied up,” I point out.

“They will, but they will support my narrative, just like they would have convicted Victor no matter what he said or his lawyers did. Money is power, Eve. I tried to teach you that, but you keep forgetting your lessons. If you’d been more tractable and cooperative, I wouldn’t have to get rid of you. It’s a pity.”

He didn’t feel anything for me. I could see it. He was looking at me like I was a potted plant.

All those times he punished me, hurt me, he didn’t care. Somehow that makes it worse. It must have been like whipping a dog that pissed on the carpet. I feel cold, all through my body, like my blood is freezing in my veins.

“Still, I’m not cruel. I’m not going to let you burn alive.”

He turns. He’s going to shoot me in the head instead.

While he’s not quite facing me, I lunge at him. Caught off guard, he cries out in surprise. I rake my nails down his cheek, and go for his eyes.

“Get her off me!” he bellows.

Vitali grabs at me. I get my mouth on the meat of his hand and bite. He howls in pain, and punches me in the stomach. All the wind goes out of my lungs, and I double over in agony and collapse to the floor.

The big desk turns up with a massive grunt from Victor, topples, and he throws himself at Vitali. Martin, clutching his bleeding face in one hand, searches the room for the gun. He dropped it when I attacked him. He spots it. So do I.

I leap for it, feel my fingers on the grip. He tromps on my hand and I scream, try to pull out from under his hand, but he grinds his heel and twists his foot. I think I can feel bones breaking. It’s like he’s going to rip my hand right off. He bends, reaches for the gun.

Vitali crashes into him. Somehow, Victor got the ropes off and has the thick cord looped around Vitali’s neck. He’s clawing at it, turning purple, lying on top of Martin in a heap. Victor has his knee in Vitali’s back, pulling the rope in both hands, twisting it like he means to saw through the man’s neck. Father’s fingers graze the grip of the dropped pistol and he tries to pull it towards him.

A letter opener glints on the carpet. I snatch it, raise it high and bring it down. The blade punches through the back of Father’s hand and into the floor with a solid thump and he bellows in agony, trying to claw it loose.

I grab the gun, roll away. Victor pulls aside.

Martin pulls his hand loose and rolls, just as I pull the trigger. The report rings in my ears, and the gun jumps in my hand. My shot went wild, blew a hole in some books on the shelves. Father is on me before I can aim at him again. He collapses on top of me, pinning my arms to the side, grabs my wrist and squeezes so hard it feels like he’ll put his thumb through the bones. I scream in agony and the gun drops from my limp hand. A savage backhand knocks me away, the world flashing white as his knuckles hit my jaw, and the room tilts and spin when my head hits the edge of a bookcase. My head is wet, and my hand comes away slick. I try to get up but I can’t. Vitali rolls on top of Victor and Martin aims the gun at him.