Chapter 3 - The Sovereign’s Wrath
Tyler scrambled backward on the couch, his legs tangling in the cushions, his hands raised in a pathetic attempt to shield himself.
"Mr. Hall! Wait!" Tyler shrieked, his voice soaring into a shrill, hysterical pitch. "It was an accident! I swear to God it was an accident! Grace slipped! The floor was wet from the rain!"
Richard Hall didn't answer. He didn't even acknowledge the excuse. He casually unbuttoned his trench coat, handed his leather gloves to the chief security officer standing behind him, and pulled out a sleek, obsidian-black tablet.
He tapped the glass twice.
"At 1:19 AM," Richard said, his tone devoid of any human warmth, sounding like a judge reading an execution warrant, "Mrs. Rosa Alvarez called 911 from apartment 4B. In her recorded statement to the dispatcher, she stated, and I quote: 'The husband hit her. I saw him running away while she was bleeding on the floor.'"
Richard looked up from the tablet, his cold, amber eyes fixing directly onto Tyler’s pale face.
"At 1:42 AM, Grace arrived at St. Catherine's. At 2:03 AM, my grandson was delivered via emergency surgery. He weighed three pounds, four ounces. His lungs are filled with fluid, his heart rate is unstable, and he is currently hooked up to seven machines in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit."
Tyler’s breath hitched. "Is... is he gonna live?"
"If he dies," Richard said softly, taking a single step toward the couch, "you will not go to prison, Tyler. Prison is a place for human beings who break human laws. I will personally see to it that you vanish into the foundation piers of the new harbor bridge I’m pouring in Jersey next Tuesday."
Marcus fell to his knees on the rug, his hands clasped together in desperate terror. "Mr. Hall, please! I had nothing to do with this! I tried to tell him to go to the cops! I swear I didn't know what he did!"
Richard didn't even look down at Marcus. He snapped his fingers once.
Two of the suits stepped forward, grabbed Marcus by his collar, and dragged him out into the hallway without a sound, slamming the door shut behind them.
Now, it was just Richard, his chief security director—a former Mossad operative named Vance—and Tyler.
"You thought she was helpless, didn't you?" Richard asked, pulling an antique silver pocket watch from his vest, checking the time calmly. "You looked at my Grace—a girl who chose to teach poor children in Brooklyn instead of spending my money—and you mistook her humility for weakness. You thought because she didn't throw her last name in your face, she had no one standing behind her."
Tyler was weeping now, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, trembling so violently his teeth rattled. "Mr. Hall... please, I love her! I’ll go to therapy! I’ll sign whatever you want! Just don't destroy me!"
"Destroy you?" Richard let out a low, humorless chuckle that sent a shiver straight down Tyler’s spine. "Tyler, you don't build a building without clearing the dirt first. You are dirt. And I haven't even started clearing you yet."
Richard turned to Vance. "Is the file complete?"
"Yes, Mr. Hall," Vance replied, opening a leather folder. "Tyler Miller. Formerly employed as head of security at Blackout Lounge—a club owned by the Moretti family. Fired three weeks ago for stealing cash from the VIP bar. Current debt: ninety-four thousand dollars to private bookmakers. Current bank balance: forty-two dollars."
Vance flipped the page. "Furthermore, Mr. Miller’s apartment lease on 4th Street in Brooklyn is held by a holding company called Apex Living. Apex Living is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Hall Urban Development."
Tyler’s eyes bulged. "What?"
"The roof over your head belonged to me," Richard said quietly. "The water you drank came through pipes my company laid. The electricity powering this light switch runs through a grid my engineering firm designed. You lived in my city, Tyler. You breathed my air. And you put your hands on my blood."
Richard took a step back toward the door, putting his leather gloves back on, finger by finger.
"Vance," Richard commanded.
"Sir?"
"Evict him. Not tomorrow. Now. Seize his car. Freeze every account associated with his social security number under the emergency civil liability motion we filed twenty minutes ago with Judge Sterling. Issue a nationwide notice to every security firm, club, and private contractor in the tri-state area: anyone who hires Tyler Miller will lose their city licenses by noon tomorrow."
Tyler gasped, scrambling off the couch, crawling on his hands and knees toward Richard’s boots. "No! No! You can't do that! I’ll be homeless! I won't have a cent!"
Richard stopped at the threshold, turning his head slightly to look back down at the crawling man.
"You left my pregnant daughter bleeding on a cold floor," Richard said, his voice flat, absolute, and echoing like judgment day. "You didn't care if she had a life, a home, or a future. Starting right now, you don't have one either."
Richard walked out of the apartment.
Vance stepped back into the room, pulled a black tactical baton from his coat, and locked the apartment door behind him.
Thirty minutes later, Tyler Miller was thrown out of the side alley of his brother’s apartment building into the freezing November rain.
He had no coat. No shoes. No wallet. His phone had been remotely wiped and bricked. His pockets contained exactly forty-two dollars in cash and a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
He stood in the torrential downpour, shivering, bruised, and utterly broken, staring up at the giant skyscrapers of Manhattan towering over him like silent, dark executioners.
For four years, he had believed he was the master of his house, the powerful man who could keep his quiet wife under his thumb.
May you like
Now, looking up at the illuminated silver logo of Hall Urban Group glowing at the top of the tallest tower in the city, Tyler realized the terrifying truth.
He hadn't been living in a home. He had been living in a cage built by a titan—and the titan had just locked the door from the outside.
