Part of me wonders if he'll refuse. If Victor Hammond will choose his empire over his son, the way he's chosen it over everything else his entire life.
My father looks at me. Neither of us speaks.
His throat bobs as he swallows. Steel grey eyes close, briefly, then open again. When he exhales, his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of them.
“You signed your shares over,” he says.
“For him?” He tilts his head toward Logan.
“He's my family.” The words come out steady. “The family I chose.”
Victor's breath catches. Small, barely audible, but I see his nostrils flare. His gaze drops to my bound wrists, to the blood on my hands, to the way I'm hunched over my ruined ankle. Back up to my bruised face.
He blinks slowly. His jaw unclenches. Something shifts in his posture, shoulders dropping another fraction.
He turns back to Helena. “Untie me. I'll sign.”
“Victor—“ I start.
“She's right about one thing.” His voice is quiet. “I've made mistakes. Spent my whole life building an empire and ignoring everything else. Everyone else.” He looks at me again. “I thought you were soft, Alexander. Thought your sentimentality was weakness. You just gave up everything to save your friend.” He pauses. “I don't think I would have done the same.”
“Don't sign,” I plead. “Don't give her what she wants.”
“It's only money.” He almost smiles. “It's always been just money. I've been too foolish to realize it.”
Helena watches this exchange with growing impatience. She nods to one of the mercenaries, who cuts Victor's zip ties. “Touching. Now sign.”
Victor takes the pen and signs without his usual flourish.
Helena gathers the documents, satisfaction radiating off her like heat.
She's won. She's actually won.
I watch my father, expecting rage, calculation, some scheme already forming behind his eyes. Instead, he looks deflated. Hunched. Older than I've ever seen him.
Shouting from above. Distant at first, then closer. A crash hard enough to shake the ceiling. Then another.
Helena's head snaps toward the stairs. “What?—“
Gunfire. Muffled by distance but unmistakable. More shouting. Fighting.
The mercenaries exchange uneasy glances. One of them speaks into a radio, gets static in return.
“What is that?” Helena demands.
My heart is pounding. I don't know what's happening. Could be Victor's people, the loyal ones, finally realizing something's wrong. Could be police. Could be a rival using this chaos to make a move.
Could be help. Could be something worse.
I catch Logan's eye. He's trying to sit more upright, grimacing with the effort. Body battered, but his eyes track the chaos.
“Go check,” Helena orders two of the mercenaries. “Move!”
The door slams behind them. Two left. Better odds, but still not good.
The sounds above intensify. More gunfire. Another crash.
Helena clutches her bag, hands shaking. She backs toward the far wall. Her composure cracking.
