Chapter 1
The cold sterile air of the waiting room stung like shattered glass.
Six men in tailored charcoal suits sat frozen under the flickering fluorescent lights, their arrogant expressions instantly faltering.
Ethan walked slowly toward the eldest man, his heavy leather boots echoing off the polished linoleum floor like a death knell.
Elderly Marcus Vance, the ruthless patriarch of the Vance Financial Empire, leaned forward on his silver-headed cane with a contemptuous smirk.
"Watch your tone, boy," Marcus sneered, adjusting his silk tie as two bulky bodyguards stepped into Ethan's path. "You have no idea who you are addressing."
Ethan didn't blink, his knuckles turning stark white as his hands rested at his sides.
The air pressure in the hallway seemed to plummet, heavy with absolute, suffocating terror.
"My wife is lying in intensive care with broken ribs and a fractured skull," Ethan said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
"And my son's heart stopped beating twenty minutes ago because of what your men did."
The bodyguards shifted uncomfortably, feeling the sudden, predatory aura radiating from the seemingly ordinary thirty-year-old husband.
Marcus merely scoffed, pulling a gold fountain pen and a leather checkbook from his inner jacket pocket.
"Tragedies happen in big cities every day," Marcus said coldly, writing out a figure without looking up. "Name your price and sign the non-disclosure agreement."
Ethan looked down at the checkbook, a faint, chilling smile creeping across his lips.
"You think a piece of paper can buy the life of my child?" Ethan asked softly.
Before the bodyguards could react, Ethan's hand blurred through the air with terrifying speed.
He grabbed the nearest guard by the throat, slamming him violently into the concrete wall with enough force to crack the drywall.
The second bodyguard reached for a concealed holster beneath his suit jacket, but Ethan caught his wrist, snapping it back with an audible crack.
The man screamed in agony, falling to his knees as his firearm dropped onto the floor.
Ethan picked up the dropped 9mm Glock with effortless, practiced familiarity, chambering a round in less than half a second.
He pressed the ice-cold barrel directly against the center of Marcus Vance’s forehead.
The arrogant patriarch paled instantly, his silver cane dropping onto the floor as cold sweat beaded across his wrinkled brow.
"You have five seconds to tell me who authorized the hit on my wife's vehicle," Ethan whispered into Marcus's ear.
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"Ethan, stop!" a female voice gasped from down the corridor.
Ethan didn't turn his head, keeping the front sight post locked on the old man's trembling forehead.
