Part 2: The Vanguard of the Boss
Evan froze, the duct tape slipping from his fingers and rolling into the darkness of the corner.
He knew that voice.
The entire state of Illinois knew that voice.
My father was Marcus "The Ghost" Vance, a man who had controlled the commercial ports and labor unions of the Midwest for forty years without ever leaving a fingerprint.
Evan scrambled up the concrete stairs, his knees knocking against the wood in his sudden haste to reach the main floor.
Through the open basement door, I heard the sound of our heavy front blinds being ripped open.
Then, a sudden, suffocating silence blanketed the neighborhood.
No birds. No traffic. No suburban noise.
Just the synchronized, heavy thud of twelve car doors slamming shut at the exact same second outside our house.
I dragged my body toward the bottom step, my fingers digging into the rough wood as I tried to pull myself toward the light.
Upstairs, the glass in our living room window didn't just shatter.
It imploded inward under the weight of three black titanium breaching rams.
The sound was like a bomb going off in the center of the kitchen, followed immediately by the rapid, military rhythm of heavy combat boots moving across our hardwood floors.
— Down! Get on the ground! a voice roared from the foyer.
It wasn't the police.
The men entering my house wore plain black tactical gear, their faces hidden behind ballistic masks, their weapons equipped with heavy thermal scopes.
Evan didn't even have time to scream before he was slammed face-first into the marble island, his nose fracturing against the stone with a wet, heavy pop.
Then came the slow, deliberate footsteps.
The distinct sound of handmade Italian leather shoes stepping over the broken glass in the hallway.
My father walked to the top of the basement stairs.
He didn't look at Evan, who was currently weeping into the marble while two tactical guards pinned his arms behind his back.
He looked straight down into the darkness where I lay.
His grey hair was perfectly combed, his tailored trench coat pristine, but his eyes were the color of an iron cage.
— Bring my daughter up, my father ordered.
Two medics moved past him like ghosts, their hands incredibly gentle as they lifted me from the concrete and slid a cervical collar around my neck.
As they carried me past the kitchen, I saw the mistress, the woman in the red blazer, sitting on our sofa.
Her face was pale, her hands trembling so hard she couldn't even look at the guards standing over her.
May you like
My father walked over to Evan, pulling a silver fountain pen from his pocket and tapping it against his palm.
— You thought she was alone, Evan, my father said softly. You thought because I didn't attend the wedding, I had forgotten what she was to me.
