Page 32 of Inheritance
My focus had narrowed to a single point:
Sophia.
I looped around the block and skidded into the museum’s back lot. Hidden from public view.
I didn’t bother putting the car in park. I was already out, running for the nearest back door.
Sophia
We plunged into darkness.
The stairwell was narrow and industrial—bare concrete walls, metal steps that groaned under our weight. Tony’s grip on my hand was vice-tight, pulling me so fast I could barely find my footing. I stumbled after him, heart pounding, feet slipping with every step.
Halfway down, I missed a step entirely.
My foot slid out. My body jerked sideways, momentum yanking me hard against the railing. Pain bloomed in my hip as I slammed into metal, my knees buckling beneath me.
Tony didn’t stop, hauling me back up like I weighed nothing.
He pulled me around the corner at the bottom of the stairwell and dropped to a knee, dragging me down with him. I barely registered the motion before a gunshot cracked too close. Tony flinched, ducked, then snapped back up with his gun drawn. He fired back without hesitation—a clean, practiced motion.
Another shot whined past, snapping into the concrete wall behind us.
He yanked me up again, and we ran. My legs were barely working, heavy with adrenaline and pain.
A heavy-looking door marked the only way forward. Maybe it was locked. Maybe it wasn’t. Tony didn’t care. He barreled into it shoulder-first like it was made for him to break. The hinges snapped, and we burst into another dimly lit hall, storage racks towering on either side, forcing us into a single-file sprint.
I pressed a hand to my chest, breath ragged, trying to match his pace.
“This way,” he growled, yanking me around another corner.
The sound of pursuit grew louder. Closer.
We had a good ten-second lead on them, and only one direction left. We tore into a large storage room filled with towering stacks of crates.
Tony paused, scanning.
Then he shoved me to the floor beside a crate.
He crouched, head just above the edge of the container, eyes constantly moving. My pulse hammered in my ears, every breath sharp and shaking.
Then I saw it. At the far end of the room, just out of sight—another door, slightly open, revealing a stairwell. Up. Out. Safe.
I grabbed Tony’s sleeve.
“There. That could be an exit.”
He spotted it.
Another barrage of bullets drove us both lower. He held his gun above the crate without aiming and fired until he was out of ammo.
He ejected the mag, his movements jerky, hands trembling so hard I thought he might drop the gun. He reached into his coat and pulled out another magazine, nearly fumbling it as a bullet cracked into the wall right next to his head, peppering his face with shards of concrete.
His breath came in rapid bursts, eyes wide with something close to panic.
Finally, he slammed the new mag into place, racked the slide with a sharp snap, and lifted the gun again, jaw clenched tight.
He fired again—clean, controlled, but fast.
