— “You’re a fool. But I’d have done the same thing.”
The next day, someone tried to plant drugs on Andrew. He came home to find a small baggie of white powder tucked into his mailbox. He knew it was a setup immediately. He took it to a nearby park and flushed it down a public toilet. But he knew: next time, they’d call the cops before he found it.
Two days after that, the breaking point came. Vera collapsed. Her blood pressure spiked, and she had sharp chest pains. Andrew called 911. The paramedics rushed her to the hospital. A heart attack. Intensive care.
Andrew sat in the waiting room, staring at the white walls, watching the nurses hurry past. He felt cold inside. Four hours later, a doctor came out—a woman in her fifties, looking exhausted.
— “Are you the son?”
— “Yes.”
— “She’s stable, but it was a close call. It was a stress-induced cardiac event. She needs absolute quiet—no stress, no excitement. Another shock like this could be fatal.”
Andrew was allowed to see her an hour later. Vera was hooked up to monitors, pale and fragile. She opened her eyes, saw him, and tried to smile. He took her hand, and she whispered:
— “I’m sorry, Andy. I’ve made things so hard for you.”
Andrew squeezed her hand gently:
— “Mom, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
She closed her eyes, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
Andrew sat there, watching her. For nine years, he’d dreamed of this reunion. He’d endured prison just to come home and take care of her. And now she was in a hospital bed because of them. Because of three spoiled brats who thought the world was their playground.
He stood up, walked into the hallway, and pulled out his phone. He found a number he’d been given before his release. He dialed. It was answered on the third ring.
— “Yeah.” The voice was gravelly and familiar.
— “Gray? It’s Sullivan. You remember me?”
— “I remember, Andy. What’s going on?”
— “I need help. Serious help.”
Gray was silent for a moment.
— “Talk to me.”
Andrew gave him the short version. Gray listened, then said:
— “Understood. Let’s meet tomorrow. We’ll take care of it.”
Andrew hung up.
The next day, Andrew met Gray in an old warehouse district on the North Side. Gray had been out for three years. He’d done time for robbery, but he was a man of his word. On the outside, he kept a low profile, but he still had his connections. Tall, lean, with a scar through his eyebrow, he was a man who didn’t waste words. Standing with him were two others. One was Gus, a broad-shouldered man in his forties with tattooed knuckles. The second was Lee, younger, maybe thirty, with a shaved head and sharp, observant eyes. Both were ex-cons; both knew how to handle business.
Gray nodded to Andrew. Andrew laid out the whole situation, from the humiliation of his mother to the heart attack. Gray listened, smoking a cigarette. When Andrew finished, Gray said:
— “Got it. These rich kids think Daddy’s checkbook is a shield. We’re going to show them it’s not.”
Gus grunted:
— “Kids like that need a real education.”
Lee nodded:
— “How many?”
— “Three,” Andrew replied.
Gray stubbed out his cigarette.
— “Alright, we’ll help. But we do this smart—no noise, no trail. You’re the lead; you call the shots. We’re just the support.”
Andrew nodded:
— “Thank you.”
Gray smirked:
— “We look out for our own. You held your own inside; we don’t forget that.”
For the next three days, Andrew studied the targets. Gray’s contact provided the intel. Here’s what they found:
Kyle Miller, 24. Son of County Commissioner Alex Miller. Lives in a luxury condo downtown. Drives a white BMW, a graduation gift. Spends his nights at high-end clubs, drinks too much, and thinks he’s untouchable because of his dad’s office.
Derek Owens, 23. Son of Victor Owens, owner of a major gas station chain. Lives in a gated community in the suburbs. Drives a black Range Rover. Loves bars, gambling, and trouble. His father has bailed him out of three DUIs already.
Arthur Bennett, 25. Son of Stan Bennett, a major real estate developer. Lives in a sprawling estate with his parents. Drives a grey Mercedes. He’s the most aggressive of the three, with a history of bar fights that his father’s lawyers always make “disappear.”
Andrew noted everything: addresses, cars, routines, favorite hangouts. Lee helped tail them for a few days, taking photos and mapping their routes. Gray found a “workspace”—an abandoned machine shop in an industrial zone. It had been closed for years. Sturdy walls, heavy doors, and far enough away that no one would hear a thing. Andrew went there to inspect it. Rusty equipment, concrete floors, the smell of oil and dampness. In the corner were some old chairs, chains, and tools. Gray said it was perfect. No cameras, no witnesses.
Andrew nodded. The plan was forming. He wasn’t going to kill them—that would bring too much heat. The fathers would call in every favor, and the FBI would get involved. He had to do something else. He had to break them. Mentally and physically. He wanted them to feel what it was like to be helpless. He wanted them to remember this for the rest of their lives.
That evening, Andrew sat at home, refining the details. How to take them, how to transport them, what to do. Gray warned him: “Stay cold, Andy. Anger makes you sloppy.” Andrew understood. Nine years of prison had taught him exactly how to wait and how to strike.
On the fourth day, Vera was discharged. Andrew brought her home. She was weak, pale, and moved slowly. The doctors’ orders were clear: total rest. Vera looked at her son and asked:
— “Andy, is everything okay?”
He nodded:
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