Chapter 9 - The Laughing Husband
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For one terrible second, the music seemed to fade, and the entire room went dead quiet. Brandon stared at me, his eyes dropping from my tear-streaked face to my bound hands, noting the way my fingers were desperately clutching the silver bracelet.
Then, the tension broke. Brandon threw his head back and laughed—a loud, booming sound of genuine amusement.
"Your daddy?" he said, slowly walking toward me, spinning the bloody hammer casually in his hand. "Are you serious, Emily? Is that what you’re doing? Calling daddy for help?"
A few of the guests chuckled nervously, the sound echoing in the large room.
Brandon crouched in front of me, leaning so close I could smell the expensive champagne on his breath. "Go ahead, Emily. Call him. Tell the old, broken-down truck driver to fire up his rusted pickup and come rescue his little girl."
He reached out, his strong fingers wrapping painfully around my wrist. "Maybe I'll leave him a voicemail. Actually, no. Maybe I'll let him watch while I finish breaking the rest of your joints."
He lunged forward, intending to rip the silver bracelet from my arm and crush it under his heel. But Brandon, in all his Ivy League education and corporate arrogance, had made one fatal, catastrophic mistake.
He truly believed Abraham Yates was just a tired old man who hauled freight for a living. He had no idea that somewhere across the dark streets of Springfield, the most ruthless, feared mafia boss in the state had just heard his only daughter begging for her life.
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Brandon’s fingers closed tightly around my wrist, his thumb digging into my skin as he prepared to snap the jewelry.
Then, the world shifted.
