The Forgotten Hilton

Chapter Two – The Bastard Heir (Part Two)

Charles’s voice cut through. “Good.”

Marcus looked up, panting. Charles stood a few feet away, smoke curling from his pistol as another intruder fell behind him.

His gaze fixed on Marcus, sharp, appraising.

“You’ve tasted it now,” Charles said. “The truth of survival. The weakness you carried, leave it behind. This is who you are.”

Marcus’s hands shook as he wiped blood from his face. His voice broke. “I don’t want this.”

“You already chose it the moment you stepped into this house,” Charles replied.

His tone was calm, but his eyes burned.

“The enemy chose you long before tonight.”

A final shot rang out from the far end of the hall. The last intruder crumpled, security storming in behind him.

The echo of gunfire faded into a suffocating silence, the floor was littered with bodies. Blood smeared across polished marble.

The Hilton portraits loomed above, their painted eyes judging the chaos below.

Marcus staggered to his feet, his body aching, his mind reeling, And then, slow clapping echoed from the grand staircase.

Evelyn Hilton descended slowly, her smile sharp as a blade. “Well, well,” she purred. “The bastard has teeth after all.”

Her gaze swept over the corpses, then back to Marcus. “But tell me, nephew… how long before those teeth turn on you?”

The servant’s voice quivered.

“Masked men, armed. They cut through the east wing’s glass doors, security is holding them back, but”

A gunshot cracked through the mansion, silencing him.

Marcus’s blood ran cold. His pulse hammered in his ears. Gunfire. Here.

Charles’s hand gripped his shoulder like iron.

“Do not cower, Marcus. This is your inheritance, wealth, power, and enemies who will kill you for both.”

Marcus’s throat tightened. “I… I’m not ready for this.”

“No one ever is,” Charles said sharply. He drew a sleek pistol from beneath his jacket, the metal gleaming under the chandelier’s light.

“Stay close. And watch.”

Another shot rang out, closer this time. Shouts echoed from the east corridor.

The staff scattered, some screaming, others rushing to lock down the hall.

Marcus felt the walls closing in, the portraits of the Hilton ancestors staring down at him, cold and judgmental.

“This isn’t my world,” Marcus muttered, his chest heaving. “I can’t”

Charles spun on him, his voice a whip. “It is your world. Tonight proves it.

They didn’t wait a day before trying to erase you. That means they fear you. Remember that, Marcus, fear is power.”

The double doors to the east wing slammed open. A masked intruder stumbled in, firing wildly.

The bullet shattered a vase near Marcus’s feet, porcelain exploding across the marble.

Marcus dropped instinctively, his ears ringing. His heart screamed to run, but Charles didn’t flinch.

With a single, fluid motion, he raised his pistol, one shot. The intruder collapsed, a dark stain spreading across his chest.

The hall fell silent but for Marcus’s ragged breathing.

His stomach churned, bile rising at the sight of blood pooling across the marble he had just walked.

“You killed him,” Marcus rasped.

Charles didn’t look away. “He came to kill you. Never forget that. In this war, hesitation is death.”

Before Marcus could reply, more figures surged through the doors, three, four, five of them, guns raised.

“Down!” Charles barked, pushing Marcus behind a column.

Bullets tore into the air, shredding tapestries and splintering wood. Staff screamed and fled.

Marcus crouched low, his body trembling uncontrollably. The acrid scent of gunpowder burned his lungs.

Charles returned fire with surgical precision, each shot measured, deliberate.

One intruder fell. Another stumbled, clutching his leg. But the others pressed forward, relentless.

Marcus’s mind spiraled. I shouldn’t be here. I’m no heir, no leader. I’m nothing, and then, Sophia’s voice slithered through his memory,

You’re trash. Trash belongs on the street.

Rage flickered through his fear. His fists clenched against the marble. No. Not again. Not anymore.

One intruder broke off, circling the column where Marcus hid.

Marcus saw his shadow stretching long across the floor, the glint of his weapon catching the light, his breath quickened.

His body screamed to stay down. But another voice, a voice that had been buried for too long, rose inside him.

Stand up, Fight.

The intruder swung around the column, gun raised, Marcus lunged.

The move was clumsy, desperate, but it caught the man off guard.

They crashed to the ground, the gun skidding across the marble. Marcus grappled with him, fists flying, fueled by panic and fury.

The man snarled, slamming an elbow into Marcus’s ribs.

Pain shot through his body, but he held on, his knuckles splitting against the intruder’s mask.

Finally, with a guttural roar, Marcus smashed the man’s head against the floor. The body went limp.

Silence swallowed him. His chest heaved. His hands trembled, bloodied and raw.

He had never fought like that before. Never killed—had he killed? He didn’t know.

His mind screamed denial, but his body thrummed with something else entirely, Adrenaline, Power.

Charles’s voice cut through. “Good.”

Marcus looked up, panting. Charles stood a few feet away, smoke curling from his pistol as another intruder fell behind him.

His gaze fixed on Marcus, sharp, appraising.

“You’ve tasted it now,” Charles said.

“The truth of survival, the weakness you carried, leave it behind. This is who you are.”

Marcus’s hands shook as he wiped blood from his face. His voice broke. “I don’t want this.”

“You already chose it the moment you stepped into this house,”

Charles replied. His tone was calm, but his eyes burned. “The enemy chose you long before tonight.”

A final shot rang out from the far end of the hall.

The last intruder crumpled, security storming in behind him.

The echo of gunfire faded into a suffocating silence.

The floor was littered with bodies. Blood smeared across polished marble.

The Hilton portraits loomed above, their painted eyes judging the chaos below.

Marcus staggered to his feet, his body aching, his mind reeling, And then, slow clapping echoed from the grand staircase.

Evelyn Hilton descended slowly, her smile sharp as a blade. “Well, well,” she purred. “The bastard has teeth after all.”

Her gaze swept over the corpses, then back to Marcus. “But tell me, nephew… how long before those teeth turn on you?”