My stepsister, Gillian, held her smartphone high in the air, recording my pain on video with an amused and cruel expression on her face.
“Dad, tell her to show her face to the camera because I want to capture the exact moment she finally understands who is in charge of this house,” she mocked.
I desperately clutched a thick leather folder to my chest, which contained the deeds to two commercial buildings in Sacramento, a vacation home by Lake Tahoe, a beautiful vineyard in Sonoma, and the final will of my grandmother, Abigail Darcy.
My grandmother had raised me ever since my mother passed away, and she understood the dangerous ambition of her only son far too well.
“This entire inheritance belongs to me under the law, and the will strictly forbids any transfer of property that is obtained through threats,” I said, struggling to hold back my tears.
Mark rested the heavy end of the baseball bat against my left arm, putting pressure on the unbroken bone.
