Chapter 3 - The Descent Into The Study
Inside the mansion’s private study, the air smelled of expensive bourbon, spilled champagne, and overwhelming, suffocating fear.
Ryan was currently on his knees on the Persian rug, his custom Brioni suit torn at the shoulders, spitting blood onto the gold threads.
His mother, Eleanor, wasn't crawling toward the front door anymore; she had collapsed against the baseboards, weeping hysterically while begging for mercy.
Jonathan Vance stood over them like an executioner, slowly sliding his gold Cartier watch off his wrist and placing it onto the mahogany desk.
“You raised a coward, Eleanor,” my father said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that made the two remaining security guards tighten their grip on Ryan.
“For two years, my daughter sat at your family dinners with hidden bruises because she wanted to respect her marriage vows.”
“And your son decided to celebrate her thirtieth birthday by turning her face into a punching bag for his drunken amusement.”
Ryan whimpered, dragging himself across the floor toward my father’s Italian leather shoes, his nose broken and bleeding profusely.
“Mr. Vance… please… I didn't know she was your daughter when we got married! It was a mistake!” Ryan sobbed pathetically, his arrogance completely gone.
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My father looked down at him with cold, dead eyes, the same look he had given every man who ever dared to cross the syndicate lines.
“It wasn’t a mistake, Ryan,” my father replied softly. “It was a fatal calculation.”
