“I just stood by the door. Oliver told me to. He said she liked him, that she came over on her own. We were drinking, she got wasted. Then they took her into the bedroom.”
“Ryan, Tony, Oliver. I didn’t touch her, I swear.”
“Were they filming?”
“Tony was.”
“With a camcorder. Oliver said it was for his collection. Then she tried to leave, threatened to call the cops. Ryan called his dad, and the whole thing went away. Oliver kept calling her, scaring her. Showing her the video, saying he’d post it online.”
“Where’s the tape?”
“At Tony’s studio. He keeps everything there. On his computer, on discs.”
Vic nodded and stood up. Peterson licked his lips.
“You gonna let me go?”
“Yeah.”
Peterson exhaled in relief. He tried to stand up. Vic brought his heavy work boot down hard on Peterson’s right hand.
Then, methodically and without emotion, Vic ensured that Peterson would never lift a weight or hurt anyone ever again. He worked with cold precision, using just enough force to make the lesson permanent. Peterson screamed as he realized his career as a bouncer and a tough guy was over. Vic didn’t stop until he was certain the debt had been paid in kind.
Then he let go.
“The doctors might fix it, but you’ll never throw a punch again. Remember this: when you cause pain, you pay for it.”
He walked out of the gym without looking back. Outside, the air was cool and smelled of rain.
Vic lit a cigarette and wiped his hands. One down.
Three to go. He walked through the evening city, past the neon signs and the people rushing home. No one knew that a war had just begun.
A quiet, ruthless war with no rules. ‘Fox Media’ occupied the basement of an old brick building on Forest Ave. It was a former boiler room converted into a studio.
The sign was modern, the windows were barred, and the door was heavy steel with an intercom. Tony worked late, just like Charlie said. At midnight, the lights were still on.
Vic watched for two days, learning the routine. Tony arrived in the afternoon in a white Volkswagen, left after midnight. Alone, no security.
An arrogant trust-fund kid who thought his father’s money solved everything. On May 9th, the city was loud with fireworks and celebrations. Perfect timing.
The noise would cover everything. Vic approached the studio door at 1:00 AM. He pressed the intercom.
A crackle, then a voice. Young, annoyed.
“We’re closed. Come back at ten.”
“Anthony Fox?” Vic asked calmly.
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“Ellie Miller’s father.”
Silence. A long silence. Then a click, and the door unlocked. Vic pushed it open and stepped inside.
The hallway was narrow, painted black with purple neon accents. It smelled of cigarettes and chemicals. At the end of the hall was the studio.
Soft lighting, softboxes, backdrops on stands, cameras on tripods. Tony Fox sat at a desk. He was twenty-four, thin, with a trendy haircut and a designer t-shirt.
His face was smug. He held a cigarette. On the desk was a high-end monitor and scattered discs.
“Come on in, pops,” Tony smirked. “Want some tea?”
Vic closed the door behind him. He walked closer.
He stopped three feet away. Tony took a drag and blew out a cloud of smoke.
“So, the girl’s dad. Heard she’s in the hospital. Sad story. But what’s that got to do with me? I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“The video,” Vic said flatly.
“Hand over the copies.”
Tony laughed—a high, mocking sound.
“What video? What are you talking about, old man?”
Vic pulled his knife. The blade snapped out.
Tony stopped laughing. He stood up, backing toward the wall.
“Are you crazy? I’ll call my dad, he’ll have you buried in concrete.”
“Call him.”
Tony reached for his phone. Vic stepped forward, grabbed it, and smashed it against the floor.
He crushed it under his heel. Tony scrambled, looking for an exit, but Vic was already on him.
He grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the chair in front of the monitor. The cold steel of the knife touched his neck.
“Where are the files?”
