THE FATHER'S WRATH

Panic is a highly contagious disease, and among the elite, it spreads faster than wildfire.

With Cole’s empire in ruins, Hale’s political career incinerated, and Whitmore’s private army dismantled in under two minutes, the fathers and mothers realized they could not protect their sons. But arrogance is hard to kill. Instead of surrendering, they chose to run.

Vincent tracked the movement. "Boss, they’re making a play. Arthur Whitmore arranged a private jet. A Gulfstream G650. They are gathering Ethan, Brandon, and Tyler. They plan to fly them to a non-extradition country in Eastern Europe. The jet leaves Teterboro Airport in forty minutes."

"They think the sky can save them," I murmured, staring at a map of the city. "Shut down the airspace. Ground that plane."

"I don't control the FAA, Daniel."

"No, but money does. And fear does." I looked at Vincent. "Call the air traffic control director. Remind him of the gambling debts we erased for him twelve years ago. If that plane takes off, I will personally see that his debts are reinstated, with interest, to the Cartel."

Vincent smiled tightly. "Consider it done."

At Teterboro Airport, the rain had started again, slicking the tarmac. The three boys—Ethan, Brandon, and Tyler—were shivering in the back of a black SUV as it sped toward the waiting Gulfstream. They were no longer the arrogant kings of the campus. They looked like terrified children. Ethan’s face was bruised from a bar fight he started out of stress, Brandon was chewing his fingernails to the quick, and Tyler was quietly sobbing.

"We just have to get on the plane," Tyler whimpered. "My dad said once we're in the air, we're safe. We can live in Prague. We have money."

"Shut up, Tyler!" Ethan snapped, though his voice cracked. "If you hadn't left that stupid piece of paper in her pocket, none of this would be happening!"

"Me?!" Tyler shrieked. "You're the one who hit her! You shattered her jaw because she wouldn't sleep with you!"

"Quiet!" Brandon hissed, his eyes darting frantically out the window. "We just need to board."

The SUV screeched to a halt near the steps of the private jet. The pilot, looking nervous, was waiting. The boys scrambled out of the car, carrying designer duffel bags stuffed with cash and passports. They rushed up the stairs, throwing themselves into the luxurious leather seats of the cabin.

"Go! Take off now!" Ethan screamed at the pilot.

The pilot locked the cabin door, rushed to the cockpit, and fired up the engines. The massive jet whined, preparing to taxi. The boys collapsed into their seats, letting out a collective breath of relief. They had made it. They were escaping.

Then, the engines whined down. The vibration ceased. The cabin went dead silent.

"What's happening?" Brandon demanded, jumping out of his seat. "Why are we stopping?"

The cockpit door opened. The pilot stepped out, his face pale, holding his headset. "Air traffic control just revoked our clearance. All runways are closed. They said... they said someone is on the tarmac."

"Run them over!" Ethan roared. "Take off!"

"I can't," the pilot stammered. "Look outside."

The boys rushed to the oval windows. Out on the rain-slicked runway, blocking the path of the multi-million-dollar jet, stood a single figure in a long wool coat. He wasn't holding a weapon. He wasn't yelling. He was simply standing there, staring up at the windows, an immovable object in a world of unstoppable privilege.

It was me.

Suddenly, a convoy of six black SUVs roared onto the tarmac, completely surrounding the Gulfstream. The doors opened, and Vincent’s men poured out, heavily armed and moving with terrifying precision. They weren't police; they were soldiers of the underworld.

The cabin door was forced open from the outside. Vincent stepped inside, filling the doorway with his massive frame. He looked at the three trembling boys with utter disgust.