Page 85 of Blood Heir

“You ungrateful bastard,” she hisses, standing inches from me. “Do not forget who you are. You are nothing but the orphan child of your whore of a mother and a dead traitor.”

Her palm flies across my cheek, the slap echoing in the room. The sting doesn’t even register over the rage boiling in my veins.

“You dare betray me? Betray this family?” she spits. “You fool.” She laughs bitterly. “You think they will ever accept her? She's a stain on our bloodline. She was never one of us. But you….” She leans in, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You were useful.”

I step back. “Thirteen hours,” I say. “Return my wife, or I come back with war.”

Her smile returns. She starts clapping softly, mockingly. The doors behind me creak open, and from every corner of the study, her men pour in—ten at least. All armed. All aimed at me.

Cassian shifts immediately, drawing his gun. His stance is firm, but I catch the slight tremor in his breath.

“You really want to do this?” he asks her.

Vittoria's eyes gleam with cold pleasure. “You leave me no choice, Serevin. You are now an enemy of the Accardi Syndicate.”

“Move!” one of her guards shouts, his gun trained directly on my head.

Her men surge forward like a black tide, weapons raised, eyes cold. Cassian doesn’t hesitate—his gun’s already up. The first shot cracks like thunder in the chamber. One of Vittoria’s soldiers jerks back, blood spraying across the polished wood floor.

I dive behind the side table, flipping it on its side as a shield. Bullets thud into the thick oak, splintering the air around me.

“On your left!” Cassian shouts.

I pivot fast, catch movement, fire twice—chest, head. The man drops in a spray of red. My pulse hammers. My breathing sharpens into controlled bursts.

Another man charges in close, trying to flank. I rise halfway, catch him in the throat with a single bullet. He stumbles back, gurgling, clutching his neck, crimson spilling through his fingers as he falls.

“Stay low!” Cassian growls. His voice is steady but tight—I know he’s been grazed, I saw the blood on his sleeve.

The guards don’t break formation. They’re trained for this, for close-quarters combat. Two of them flank me from either side, forcing me to roll out from cover. I grab the closest one, slam his wrist, twist until I hear bone crack, and wrench his weapon from his grasp. I slam the butt of the rifle into his face, feel the nose break under my strike, his scream cut short as I pull the trigger point-blank.

The second is on me before I can fully recover. He rams my ribs with his shoulder, driving me into the wall. My lungs seize, stars burst behind my eyes. His fist comes toward my face and I duck under, twisting and slamming my elbow into his jaw. His head snaps sideways, but not enough.

Another guard barrels toward me—big, brutal, fast. I shoot wildly, but he charges through the spray, shoulder-checks me into the heavy bookcase. My skull bounces off the wood, sharp lightning cracking across my vision.

Cassian downs another man behind him. Three bodies litter the floor now, but more keep coming.

“You’ve got too many, Don!” he yells.

I already know. They were prepared for this. This isn’t a scuffle. This is a trap.

The big guard pins my arm. I drive my knee into his gut, but his hand snakes up—grabbing my throat, squeezing hard. My vision blurs. I slam the barrel of my pistol into his temple and pull the trigger.

The back of his skull bursts open. His grip slackens, and he crashes to the ground.

I stagger, my breath ragged, chest burning, blood hot in my mouth. My body aches, muscles strained, but I force myself forward. I won’t die here.

But more guards pour in.

One catches my side with a baton. I grunt as my ribs crack. Pain sears through me. Another swings his rifle like a club, and I barely raise my arm in time to absorb the impact—but it sends me stumbling.

Cassian fires again, covering me, but even he’s beginning to falter. He’s clipped in the leg and goes down hard.

“Don’t—” I rasp. “Stay down!”

Through the chaos, I spot Vittoria standing behind her desk, untouched. She watches with sharp satisfaction, her private guards standing as a shield wall around her, their rifles steady but still—letting her men handle the blood.

Then I see him—Gustavo.

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