Marcus Russell's POV
I stepped between my brother and the girl I'd spent eighteen years protecting.
"You're not touching her, Maxwell," I said.
My brother's face twisted with rage.
"Marcus," he spat my name like poison. "I should have killed you when I had the chance."
"You tried," I said. "Remember that car accident thirty years ago? The one that was supposed to kill me?"
"You survived," Maxwell said. "That was your first mistake."
"No," I said. "My first mistake was believing you were my brother. My second mistake was waiting this long to stop you."
I looked at Elijah standing by the stairs.
My son. Not by blood, but by choice.
"Elijah," I said. "I need to tell you something I should have told you years ago."
"Now isn't the time for family stories," Maxwell said, raising his gun.
But Detective Grey had his gun pointed at Maxwell.
And James Kingston had picked up a vase, ready to throw it.
We were at a standoff.
