Travis didn’t just drop to his knees; he collapsed like a man facing a firing squad. His manicured hands hovered over my bloody face, trembling so violently his gold Rolex rattled against his wrist.
“Travis, what are you doing? She’s ruining the floor!” Madison shrieked, reaching to grab the wrench back.
Travis spun around and backhanded Madison so hard she crashed into the mahogany sideboard. The “good china” shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
My parents froze, the psychotic glee melting off their faces.
“You stupid, arrogant fools,” Travis choked out. His arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by sheer, suffocating dread. His eyes remained glued to the carved jade dragon resting on my collarbone. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
“She’s a worthless social worker!” my mother sputtered, stepping back in horror.
“That ‘at-risk’ sixteen-year-old she placed last month?” Travis’s voice cracked into a frantic pitch. “That was Elara Volkov. Daughter of Nikolai Volkov. The syndicate boss I secretly launder fifty million dollars a week for!”
All the color violently drained from my father’s face. Everyone in this city knew the Volkov name. It meant absolute, unmerciful death.
Travis pointed a shaking finger at the jade pendant. “That is Volkov’s personal seal. It means her life is worth more than mine. It means she is untouchable. And you just caved her face in.”
The silence in the dining room was deafening, broken only by the wet drip of my blood onto the oak planks.
Travis pulled a heavy black phone from his tailored suit. He didn’t dial 911.
“They’re coming,” Travis whispered, looking at my terrified family with dead eyes. “And I’m not dying with you.”
I smiled through my broken jaw, tasting copper and absolute victory. I wasn’t the punchline anymore. I was the grim reaper.
Dinner was finally getting interesting.