Chapter 13 - Silence in the Room
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The stillness in the living room was absolute. Thirty wealthy, influential people held their breath, completely paralyzed by the sheer aura of menace radiating from the old man in the work jacket.
Dad took a slow, deliberate step forward, his heavy boots thudding against the hardwood. The men in suits followed, fanning out further to cover the exits, their hands resting casually inside their tailored jackets.
Brandon swallowed hard, trying to project authority. "Abraham," he started, his voice cracking slightly. "This is a private gathering. You need to leave before I call the police."
Dad didn't even blink. He kept walking, closing the distance between the foyer and the sunken living room until he was standing just ten feet away from my husband. He looked at Brandon not as a man, but as a minor, insignificant insect that had mistakenly crawled into his home.
"Which hand?" Dad asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards.
Brandon blinked, thoroughly disoriented. "What? Listen to me, old man, you don't understand what's happening here—"
Dad took another step closer, his tired eyes suddenly burning with an ancient, terrifying darkness. The mask of the gentle truck driver had vanished entirely.
"I asked you a question, boy," Dad said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "Which hand held the hammer?"
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Brandon’s face drained of all color. He looked down at the bloody tool still gripped tightly in his right fist, suddenly realizing he was holding the very instrument of his own execution.
"This one?" Brandon spat, panic turning into desperate rage as he raised the weapon. "You want to know which hand—"
