Tristan was pale, his eyes darting frantically around the wall of motorcycles. Bryce and Cole had retreated entirely, pressing their backs against the brick retaining wall, terrified.
The three Maybachs pulled directly into the center of the lot, stopping inches from the rear bumper of the Lamborghini.
The doors of the lead Maybach opened.
Four men in tailored suits stepped out, but I didn't look at them. My eyes were on the rear passenger door of the second car.
The door swung open, and a man practically fell out onto the pavement. He was in his mid-fifties, wearing a bespoke Brioni suit that was currently wrinkled and soaked in sweat. His hair was disheveled, his face flushed with absolute panic.
It was Richard Vance.
"Dad?" Tristan gasped, taking a step toward the Maybach. "Dad, what’s going on? Who are these people?"
Richard didn't look at his son. He didn't look at the scratched Lamborghini. He pulled himself up, his chest heaving as he scanned the parking lot. His eyes locked onto me.
He saw my dusty boots. He saw my bad knee. He saw the broken glass, my pinned motorcycle, and my torn shirt, the Golden Crown tattoo fully visible on my chest. Finally, his eyes dropped to the crushed remains of the satellite phone on the asphalt.
Richard Vance let out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp.
He moved faster than I had ever seen him move. He sprinted across the gap, shoved Tristan out of the way, and dropped directly onto both knees right in front of me. The expensive fabric of his suit pants scraped against the rough asphalt, absorbing the oil and dirt.
"Mr. Silva," Richard breathed, his voice cracking, his hands trembling as he hovered them over the ground, not daring to touch my boots. "Arthur. Please. Please tell me you're not hurt."
The entire parking lot went into a state of suspended animation. The students, Bryce, Cole, and especially Tristan, stared in absolute, uncomprehending shock. Richard Vance, the billionaire, the king of the school board, the most powerful man they knew, was kneeling in the dirt before the man they had just beaten.
"Dad!" Tristan yelled, his voice shrill with panic. "What are you doing? Get up! He’s just a delivery guy! He scratched my car!"
Richard Vance whipped his head around. His face was a mask of terror and rage. He surged to his feet, closed the distance to his son, and swung his hand.
The slap sounded like a gunshot.
Tristan’s head snapped back, and the eighteen-year-old collapsed onto the pavement, clutching his face in shock.
"Shut your mouth!" Richard screamed, his voice tearing. "Shut your mouth, you stupid, arrogant little boy!"
Richard turned back to me, collapsing onto his knees again. Tears were actually streaming down the billionaire's face.
"Arthur, please," Richard begged, looking up at the Golden Crown on my chest. "Five minutes ago, my CFO called me. Every bank account. Every trust. Every corporate holding. All frozen. The shell companies are withdrawing the capital. The loans are being called in. My access cards are dead. We have nothing. Please. It took me thirty years to build Vance Properties."
"You didn't build it, Richard," I said, my voice calm, the anger replaced by a cold, calculating detachment. "I built it. I gave you the money when you were starving. I gave you the protection to outbid your rivals. I stayed in the shadows and let you wear the crown."
I looked down at Tristan, who was staring up at me from the ground, his cheek bright red, his eyes wide with a dawning, horrifying realization.