Chapter 2 - The Mansion’s Gate
The drive to the Sterling estate felt like a sprint through a nightmare.
The landscape changed from the suburban comfort of my home to the sterile, opulent stretches of the high-end district where the wealthy hid their sins behind iron gates. When the massive, ornate iron gates of the Sterling mansion finally loomed before me, I didn't hit the brakes. I slammed the truck into a lower gear and fishtailed into the gravel driveway. The estate was a sprawling monstrosity of marble and glass. And there he was. Marcus Sterling. He was standing on the porch, swinging a baseball bat in a rhythmic, sickening arc. He wore a crisp, tailored suit that looked absurd against the violence of the weapon in his hand. He wasn't alone; he had a smirk on his face—a smug, untouchable grin. As I stepped out, my boots crunching on the pristine stone, he didn't look threatened.
He looked amused. "This is a private family matter, Arthur," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Your daughter had to be disciplined." My heart hammered against my ribs, not from fear, but from the cold, lethal rage. I looked past him, searching the windows. "Move," I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the morning air like a blade. Marcus laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "You're trespassing, old man. Go back to your garden." He tightened his grip on the bat. He didn't know that I had spent twenty years in environments where "discipline" meant survival, and where men like him were just speed bumps. As I started walking toward him, he suddenly stopped laughing. He saw my eyes. He saw the cold, hollow stare of a man who had seen everything. The gardener was gone; the soldier had arrived.
