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.

The aftermath was swift and silent.

The media reported the collapse of Richard’s family as a tragic series of bad investments, criminal investigations, and mental breakdowns. The public moved on within a week, forgetting the men who once believed they owned the city.

Vincent, Marcus, and Leo were transferred to a maximum-security federal facility, placed in solitary confinement for their own "protection."

Thomas, Henry, and Julian vanished into the slums of foreign countries, hiding from cartels and creditors, living every day in abject terror.

Arthur and Simon were currently floating in a steel box somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, eating rations and staring at metal walls.

And Richard sat in a white room, staring blankly at a wall, trapped in a chemical prison inside his own mind.

I ensured their misery was monitored daily. I received reports every morning, confirming that they were alive, and confirming that they were suffering.

I returned to my estate, walking down into the medical suite.

Clara was out of the hospital bed, sitting in a comfortable armchair by the window, reading a book. Her collarbone was healing, and the bruises had faded completely.

She looked up as I entered, placing the book on the table.

“Is it over?” she asked quietly.

I walked over and knelt beside her chair, resting my head against her lap. Her soft hands immediately tangled in my hair.

“It’s over, Clara. They are gone. All of them.”

She exhaled a long, shaky breath, a single tear slipping down her cheek.