Page 45 of Inheritance

Once the man was gone, Damien fired the motor up again, easing us closer. Nikolai was still there, waiting.

He met us halfway up the planks, sweat gleaming along his temple.

"He took the flash drive. I did my part," he said, too fast. "So... you’re letting me go, right?"

"One more thing first."

I drew my pistol and shot him in both knees.

His scream ripped through the air, cut short by a gasp as he collapsed. He clutched his legs, face twisted in agony.

I grabbed him by the legs and dragged him back toward the boat. He howled, clawing at the dock, scratching up rotted wood and dirt in a pointless struggle.

“You said—“ he choked out as I threw him into the boat.

"Shut up," Damien snapped, reaching under the seat for the cinder block and rope.

Nikolai cried out, slipping into Russian words I couldn't understand, frantic and broken.

"You said you’d let me go," he gasped.

"We are," I said, pinning his arms and threading them through the cinderblock holes before binding his wrists tight. Hestayed still, watching in horror, like it wasn’t actually happening to him.

Damien steered us out from the dock. Nikolai sobbed quietly, the engine drowning him out.

Once we hit deeper water, Damien killed the motor. Silence swallowed everything but Nikolai’s breathing—ragged, panicked.

"Any last words?" I asked.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out. Just the shallow gasp of someone realizing this was his last breath in open air.

"I guess not," I said, and pushed him overboard.

It was almost meditative, sitting up here knowing he was fighting down there—struggling to hold his breath as he sank deeper into the black. A minute passed. Then two. His lungs would be filling with water at any moment.

"I told Dad about the rest of the plan," Damien said.

"Let me guess. He doesn’t like it."

"He doesn’t."

"I’ll talk to him. The plan moves forward. With or without his approval."

Damien nodded once. Nothing else needed to be said.

Nikolai was dead.

Sophia

“Good morning.”

The voice drifted through the fog of sleep—low, warm, coaxing. Something in the tone made my chest loosen, like I was safe. Like I was home.

A hand brushed my cheek. Gentle. Slow. The tip of a thumb skimmed just below my eye, then traced along my jaw. My head tilted toward it instinctively, chasing the comfort without understanding why.

The fingers moved again, brushing my hair back from my face.

There was no warmth in the skin against mine. No kindness behind the touch. Just... curiosity.