Chapter 3 - THE STRANGULATION OF THE TRUTH
The rain came down in heavy gray sheets over the Manhattan skyline, turning the streets into glistening black ribbons.
Inside the private, high-security wing of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital, Judge Arthur Vance sat in a leather armchair, sipping aged scotch from a crystal tumbler. At seventy-two, he looked every bit the elder statesman—distinguished gray hair, a sharp tailor-made suit, and an aura of supreme, unshakeable authority.
Standing near the window were two massive men in dark raincoats. On their collars, small silver pins shaped like howling wolves glinted in the dim light of the streetlamps outside.
"Is the Jenkins woman dead yet?" Arthur Vance asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking about the weather.
"She’s in an induced coma on the fourth floor, Judge," one of the mercenaries, a brute named Erik, replied in a thick Nordic accent. "She won't wake up to talk to the police. And the girl has been missing since yesterday. Our scouts are checking the local shelters."
"Find the girl," Vance said coldly, setting his glass down with a heavy click. "She is a walking liability. If Caleb Marino ever sees her face—if he ever sees those eyes—he will burn this city to the ground to find out what happened."
"Caleb Marino is a crippled shell," Erik sneered, pulling a combat knife from his belt and testing the edge with his thumb. "He hasn't left his estate in three years. He’s harmless."
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the private suite blew inward with a deafening CRACK.
The wooden frame shattered into splintered toothpicks as a flashbang grenade bounced across the polished floor, erupting in a blinding white light and a thunderous roar that shattered the double-paned window glass.
Before the smoke could even clear, two mercenaries fell to the floor, shot cleanly through the head with suppressed rounds.
Erik gasped, lunging for his firearm, but a massive hand clad in Kevlar grabbed his throat, slamming him against the marble wall with enough force to crack the stone.
Viktor—a giant of a man with scarred skin and cold blue eyes—grinned down at the mercenary, pushing the barrel of a suppressed pistol under Erik’s jaw.
"Shh," Viktor whispered playfully. "The King is here."
Arthur Vance scrambled back in his chair, his face turning the color of ash as the smoke cleared to reveal a sight that shattered his sanity.
I rolled into the room through the shattered door in my wheelchair, holding a heavy tactical pistol in my lap. Behind me stood Marcus and six heavily armed men, their laser sights painting red dots across the room.
"C-Caleb?!" Vance gasped, his voice squeaking like a terrified rat. "What is the meaning of this?! This is a high-security hospital! I am a federal judge!"
I stopped my wheelchair three feet from his chair.
I didn't answer right away. I slowly raised my right hand, picked up Vance's crystal tumbler of scotch from the table, and poured the amber liquid onto the expensive rug between his feet.
"You look old, Arthur," I said quietly, my voice vibrating with dark power. "You look like a man who has lived eight years on borrowed time."
Vance swallowed hard, sweating profusely despite the cold air blowing through the broken window. "Caleb, listen to me... if you do anything insane here, the FBI will tear your empire apart! You're a civilian now!"
"I was never a civilian, Arthur," I murmured, leaning forward. "And you stole my daughter."
Vance’s eyes widened in horror. "I... I don't know what you're talking about! Audrey’s baby died! You saw the records!"
I raised my pistol and shot Erik—the last surviving mercenary—straight through the knee. The brute shrieked in agony, collapsing to his hands and knees, blood pooling over the white marble.
Vance jumped out of his seat, screaming in terror.
"The next bullet goes through your liver, Arthur," I said, my voice dead calm. "Where is Audrey's body?"
"She's... she's in the family crypt in Long Island!" Vance wailed, holding his hands up in panic.
"Lie," I said, pointing the gun at his chest.
"NO! WAIT!" Vance fell to his knees, tears streaming down his wrinkled face, wiping away every trace of his judicial dignity. "She isn't dead! Audrey isn't dead!"
The universe seemed to stop spinning.
The air left my lungs in a violent gasp. I stared at the old man groveling on the floor, my brain refusing to process the words.
"What did you say?" I whispered, the gun in my hand suddenly feeling like a hundred pounds of lead.
"She didn't die in labor!" Vance sobbed, clutching my pant leg with trembling fingers. "She went into a deep coma! I couldn't let her stay with a mobster like you! I couldn't let my daughter live as the wife of the Harbor King! So I faked her death! I paid the hospital staff! I hid her in a private Swiss clinic in Geneva!"
My chest heaved. I reached down, grabbed Vance by his collar, and yanked him up until his wet, pathetic face was inches from mine.
"And Lily?" I roared, my voice shaking the shattered walls. "Why did you throw my daughter into the gutter?!"
"Because she was your blood!" Vance cried out, weeping uncontrollably. "I hated you! I wanted everything related to you wiped out! I gave the baby to the nurse and told her to put her in an orphanage far away! I didn't care what happened to her!"
A dark, blinding wave of absolute fury washed over my mind.
I raised the gun to press it against Arthur Vance’s forehead, ready to send him straight to hell.
"Boss!" Marcus called out sharply from the doorway. "Don't do it! Look at your legs!"
I froze.
I looked down.
Without realizing it, in my blind rage to strangle the man who had stolen my wife and child... I was standing.
My feet were planted firm against the marble floor. My legs were trembling, shaking with long-unused muscle fiber, but they were holding my six-foot-two frame fully upright.
The wheelchair sat empty behind me.
I stared at my feet, then looked down at the snivering monster in my grip.
"You took eight years of my life," I whispered, my voice cold enough to freeze blood. "You took my wife. You took my child. You made me sit in a chair while you lived in luxury."
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I shoved him backward. Vance crashed into the glass table, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
"Marcus," I commanded, standing fully erect, my posture straight and imposing like the King I used to be. "Put him in a cellar under the docks. Give him water and bread. He stays alive until Audrey comes home."
