I came home early and found my wife fainting on the sofa while my mother sat nearby, ignoring the baby’s frantic cries and eating a meal my wife had been forced to cook. My mother looked at her unconscious body and muttered, “Drama queen.” I realized then that the woman who raised me was a monster. What I did next left her shocked...

The private airfield was located on the desolate outskirts of the city, hidden behind high security fences.

I killed the headlights of the stolen sedan and coasted to a silent halt near the perimeter gate.

Through the chain-link fence, I could see a sleek white Gulfstream jet idling on the wet tarmac.

The turbine engines whined softly, preparing for an immediate late-night takeoff.

My mother was standing near the boarding stairs, holding a small baby carrier wrapped in a dark blanket.

Two armed security contractors in tactical gear stood on either side of the aircraft doors.

I checked the magazine of the suppressed pistol I had taken from the basement killer.

There were only six rounds left, and I had never fired a weapon in my life.

I slipped through a gap in the rusted fence and sprinted from the cover of one cargo crate to another.

The rain masked the sound of my footsteps as I crept closer to the boarding area.

"Hurry up and load the bags," my mother barked at one of the guards, her voice shrill with impatience.

I stepped out from behind a stack of fuel barrels and raised the weapon with both hands.

"Step away from the plane!" I screamed, my voice tearing through the sound of the jet engines.

Both armed guards immediately turned and raised their automatic rifles, aiming center mass at my chest.

My mother spun around, her eyes widening in absolute shock when she saw me standing there alive.

"Mark?" she gasped, pulling the baby carrier tightly against her chest like a human shield.

"Tell them to drop their weapons, or I swear I will end this right now," I warned, keeping my sights locked on her.

My mother quickly regained her composure, a wicked, defiant smile returning to her face.

"You don't have the guts to pull that trigger, Mark," she taunted me over the roar of the engines.

"You have always been weak, just like the pathetic woman who birthed you."

I froze, the rain soaking my clothes as her words echoed in my mind.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, my hands shaking violently.

“Which daughter is yours?” should have been a harmless question

The first wineglass shattered at 8:07 p.m

The moment the mafia boss’s wife called me “an illiterate servant,”

"I am not your mother," she laughed, stepping backward onto the first stair of the jet.

"I bought you from a desperate teenager thirty-four years ago, and now I am simply cashing in on the investment."

Chapter 7 - The Private Hangar