My parents ignored nine urgent calls from my hospital bed because they were helping my sister unpack her new suburban home. So I called my estate lawyer to the hospital, changed everything on the spot, and when they finally arrived, they learned exactly what their cruelty had cost them.

Julian immediately slammed his hand on the desk, vehemently protesting the insane demand.

He argued that going to an abandoned warehouse completely alone was an absolute suicide mission.

I looked Julian directly in the eyes and told him I was not going to let Marisol die because of my family's greed.

I refused to be the helpless victim they all expected me to be.

I instructed Julian's tactical team to wire my clothing with a hidden micro-camera and a subcutaneous GPS tracker.

I forced myself out of the comfortable hospital bed, suppressing a groan of agony as I slipped on a heavy winter coat to conceal my bandages.

Julian handed me a compact, suppressed pistol, forcing me to promise I would use it if my father tried to kill me.

I drove a rented, untraceable sedan to the industrial district, the heavy rain pounding violently against the windshield.

The abandoned warehouse loomed in the darkness, looking like a decaying steel skeleton against the stormy night sky.

I parked the car in the shadows and walked slowly toward the rusted side entrance.

My boots echoed loudly on the wet concrete as I stepped into the massive, empty building.

In the center of the dark room, Marisol was tied securely to a wooden chair, shivering in the freezing air.

I rushed forward to untie her, scanning the dark shadows for any sign of my father.

Suddenly, the heavy metal door behind me slammed shut with a deafening, metallic crash.

I spun around, aiming the pistol into the pitch-black corners of the warehouse.

A figure slowly stepped out from behind a stack of rotting wooden pallets.

It was not my father.

It was Greg, my brother-in-law, holding a massive red gasoline canister and a silver lighter.

He looked completely deranged, his eyes wide and bloodshot from days of heavy drug use and mounting paranoia.

He smiled wickedly and stated that the family had taken a vote while I was busy hacking their bank accounts.

“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,”

He splashed the gasoline across the concrete floor, blocking my only path to the exit.

He casually mentioned that a tragic, accidental warehouse fire was significantly cheaper and much less messy than a lengthy legal battle.

Chapter 8 - The Abandoned Warehouse