The Billionaire's Intern (Maya Thompson) novel Chapter 440

Chapter 194: Blood Against Blood-1

The basement smelled of iron and wet stone.

Marco Greco smiled, and the taste was rust.

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The copper crust on his lip snapped when they’d dragged him down the stairs, fresh red leaking

over a jawline gone grey and hard.

He was lashed to a metal chair-wrists bound, ankles locked, one eye already clouding into a

purple knot.

He didn’t look like a victim. He looked like a man critiquing the service.

Across from him, Viktor Volkov sat, watching the show.

The single overhead light cut a sharp cone between them, the rest of the room swallowed in

shadow.

“You’re tougher than I expected,” Volkov said. His voice was mild, almost bored.

Marco rolled his jaw. It clicked, a dull spike of pain. He grinned anyway, his eyes fixed on the man

who shared half his blood and all of his father’s fortune.

“Thought you’d be louder,” Marco shot back. “For a man who just got embarrassed.”

Viktor leaned into the light, his shadow stretching long against the concrete. “Embarrassment is

for mistakes, Marco. Treason is a business decision. I simply didn’t think yours would be so cheap.

Marco spat a glob of thick, rusted red onto the floor. “Not cheap. Just overdue. I’ve been playing second chair to a ghost’s favorite son my entire life. I just finally decided to get paid for my work

and take what’s mine.”

Viktor laughed, a sharp, genuine sound that echoed off the damp concrete like he’d just heard a

punchline.

“That’s bold! Quite impressive!” Viktor leaned forward, the light finally catching the predatory edge in his eyes.

“You’re a stray, a half-blood mistake who doesn’t even carry the name. You’re the help that forgot its place. Tell me does the help really think it gets to sit at the table, or are you just happy to beg for the scraps I drop?”

Marco’s smirk didn’t just fade-it died.

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Chapter 194 Blood Against Blood: 1

+25 Points

His jaw tightened so hard the bone looked ready to snap, and his breath hitched in a sharp, jagged hiss. He strained against the zip-ties until the plastic bit deep into his wrists, drawing fresh blood. His face flushed a dark, angry purple, and the eye that wasn’t swollen shut flared with hatred.

“The name is a leash, Viktor. A brand for cattle,” Marco spat, his voice trembling with a rage he couldn’t quite mask. “I’m the only part of this family with actual grit in his veins. You’re just a brand

name on a hollow box. I was bleeding for this family while you were being fitted for silk. I’m the one who built the throne you’re sitting on-name or no name.”

Viktor didn’t stop laughing. He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper.

“Such passion! But grit doesn’t make a king, Marco. Legacy does. You speak of building a throne,

yet you forget who truly held the keys. If you were the architect you claim to be, you wouldn’t be

bound to a chair while I stand over you.”

Viktor straightened up, his eyes turning cold and dismissive. “The tragedy of your life is that you

mistake effort for worthiness. In this family, worth is decided by the blood that is recognized, not

the blood that is spilled in the shadows. You are a ghost in our history books, and ghosts don’t get

to wear crowns.”

Viktor’s laughter died down, his face smoothing into a mask of cold curiosity. “Enough with this

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