Page 57 of Inheritance

We waited.

Too long.

When he finally returned, he had a shotgun.

Gunshots cracked louder now—closer, sharper. No longer distant.

Sal shut the door hard behind him, breathing heavily, eyes scanning the room.

“They’re close,” he said.

His voice barely held. He was shaking like a dog caught in a storm, the shotgun heavy in his grip.

He looked like he didn’t want to use it.

But the glint in his eye said he would if he had to.

He faced me fully now. Eyes wide. Like his whole life had led to this moment.

And then—he raised the shotgun in my direction.

“I don’t know who’s out there,” he said, voice low, apologetic. “But I’ve got one task to do that I know is right. One thing I don’t have to question or regret.”

Blinding light. Ears ringing, a deafening squeal that blanketed everything.

When I dared to open my eyes, one of the chain’s big links was mangled.

Sal was down on one knee, trying to pry one of the thick links through the twisted gap with his bare hands, blood smearing across the jagged metal as it sliced into him.

Another burst of gunfire tore through the mansion—closer than before. No mistaking it.

The bedroom door flew open.

Three men rushed inside, boots thundering across the tile. They moved like scared animals—jumpy, raw, wild-eyed. Then a fourth man barreled in, every inch of his skin covered in tattoos.

We all stared at them, horrified. But they barely looked at us. Just a passing glance.

Not here for us.

Sinclair men.

I felt my stomach drop. They slammed the door shut, dragging a chair across the floor with a shriek. Wedged it under the knob. One kicked it to secure it.

Another turned toward the others. “We’re done for,” he muttered.

Then the biggest one, the tattooed one, leered down at him with his broad, decorated face, neck veined with adrenaline.

“Shut the fuck up. Hold the room.”

“Hold the room? We’re out of fucking ammo.”

The big one pulled a long knife from a sheath strapped to his thigh and hit him in the arm with the flat side of it. “You got a knife, don’t you?” He growled his words so deep I felt the vibrations in my chest.

The smaller man nodded, pulling a blade from his boot and flicking it open, huffing air like he couldn’t get enough.

Sal slid back beside me, hiding his gun just in time. He tucked it low behind his leg, then doubled over with a pained grimace, smearing his bloody hands across his stomach as if he were injured in the fight and useless to them.

The big one glanced at him, but didn’t look twice.