Chapter 7 - THE BURNING BONDS
Raymond’s calm facade shattered. He swung the revolver toward Victor, his hand shaking slightly.
“Step away from the bonds, Victor,” Raymond barked. “You’re acting like a fool.”
“A fool?” Victor laughed, though there was no humor in it. He held the flame an inch closer to the paper. “I’m the fool who almost let you manipulate me into taking down my own cousin. I’m the fool who believed you when you said Adrian was weak.”
Victor looked at Adrian. “He’s the one who planted my father’s old cufflink outside the pantry. He wanted us at each other's throats. He locked us in the archive to burn.”
“Because you were becoming a liability, Victor,” Celeste said coldly from the center of the room. “You were supposed to just demand the vote and take the throne. But you hesitated. You started asking too many questions about the warehouse.”
Victor’s eyes hardened. “The warehouse. You blew the foundation, didn't you? To force Adrian to take the blame, ruining his reputation so the family would vote him out.”
“It was a necessary sacrifice,” Raymond said dismissively. “Now, put the lighter out, Victor. You’re holding your own inheritance.”
“It’s dirty money,” Victor spat.
He moved his wrist. The flame touched the edge of the top bearer bond. In seconds, the dry, expensive paper caught fire, curling and turning black. The flames leaped to the next stack.
“No!” Celeste screamed, lunging forward. “That’s mine!”
Raymond didn't look at the money. He looked at Victor. He tightened his grip on the revolver and aimed for Victor’s chest.
“No!” Adrian roared.
Adrian threw himself across the space between them, tackling his uncle just as the gun went off.
The gunshot was deafening inside the metal vault.
I screamed, dropping to the floor.
Adrian and Raymond crashed into a glass display case, shattering it into a million pieces. They rolled over the velvet trays, struggling for the weapon.
Celeste didn't try to help Raymond. She saw the bonds burning—millions of dollars turning to ash—and she panicked. She clutched her designer purse tightly to her chest and bolted for the vault door.
I was kneeling right in her path.
She raised a heavy, steel lockbox in her hand, preparing to smash it into my face to clear her way.
“Out of my way, trash!” she hissed.
I didn't move. Instead, I reached into my apron pocket, pulled out the heavy brass pool hook I had grabbed earlier—wait, no, I had my apron strings.
I grabbed the heavy silver serving tray I had left by the door earlier. As Celeste swung the lockbox down, I brought the tray up like a shield.
The impact rang like a gong. The force sent a shockwave up my arms, but it deflected her blow. Celeste stumbled backward, losing her balance on her high heels. She fell hard onto the marble floor, her purse spilling open.
The yellowed envelope—the blackmail letter—slid across the tiles and stopped at my knees. I grabbed it.
Meanwhile, Adrian had managed to pin his uncle to the ground. He wrenched the revolver out of Raymond’s hand and pressed the barrel under his jaw.
“Give me one reason not to blow your head off,” Adrian breathed, his face battered and bleeding.
Raymond laughed, a wet, bloody sound. “Because if you do, the Commission will never recognize you as boss. You’ll be a nephew who murdered his elder. You’ll be nothing.”
“He won’t shoot you,” Victor said, stepping over the ashes of the ruined bonds. He kicked Raymond hard in the ribs. “But I will.”
“Stop,” a weak but authoritative voice commanded from the doorway.
We all froze.
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Standing there, supported by Dr. Aris and a heavily armed family guard, was Rose Bellandi. She looked pale, her breathing shallow, but her eyes were like steel.
“Nobody shoots anyone in my house without a vote,” she said.
