My pregnant wife’s father and eight brothers beat her so brutally that our unborn child died, then stood outside her ICU room laughing while they told me I wasn’t powerful enough to touch them.

Richard was completely alone.

His mansion, once a bustling hub of high-society power and corrupt politics, was a tomb. His staff had abandoned him when the payroll checks bounced. His political allies had blocked his number. His eight sons were dead to the world.

I drove through the iron gates of his estate. They had been left wide open, the security system deactivated by my hackers days ago.

I didn't bring an army of guards. I brought Elias, and I brought myself.

I pushed open the heavy mahogany front doors. The mansion smelled of stale whiskey and fear.

I found Richard in his grand study.

He was sitting behind his massive oak desk, clutching a revolver in his trembling right hand. The room was dark, lit only by a single desk lamp. Empty bottles littered the floor.

He looked up as I entered. He had aged twenty years in three days.

“You took everything,” Richard rasped, pointing the trembling gun at my chest. “My sons. My legacy. My money.”

“I took exactly what you took from me,” I replied, walking slowly into the room, completely ignoring the weapon.

“I’ll kill you,” he threatened, but his voice cracked.

“You don't have the courage to pull that trigger, Richard. If you did, you would have used it on yourself hours ago.”

I stopped in front of his desk.

“You thought Clara was a piece of property you could control. You thought my child was an obstacle to your bank account. You thought power was a country club membership and a bribed senator.”