Chapter 6
There was an automatic sprinkler system in the garage, but the fire had started in the worst possible place—down in a blind corner between two cars.
With a muffled pop, the washer fluid bottle burst.
The flames surged upward, carrying heat and chemical smoke straight toward the side of Victor Vega’s Rolls-Royce.
Then the alarm went off.
A shrill scream ripped through the night.
I stared at the chaos on my phone screen, lightly tapping the rim of my glass with one finger.
And there it was.
The curtain had gone up.
Even through the live feed, I could feel the panic.
The sprinklers finally activated, and mist filled the garage, but it was too late. The paint on the left side of the Rolls-Royce had already blistered from the heat. The lower edge of the door was charred black. Worse, the chemicals from the burning junk had mixed with the water and streaked all over the body of the car.
Victor came downstairs in pajamas, followed by several men who looked just as dangerous as he did.
When he saw the condition of his car, his face turned dark as iron.
He didn’t say a word.
He simply walked over and kicked the remains of the charger so hard the scorched shell flipped across the floor.
Security had brought Mrs. Watson and Bobby downstairs too. The moment she saw the scene, Mrs. Watson’s legs gave out, and she dropped to the wet ground with a howl.
“Oh no, what kind of disaster is this!”
The funny part was that she wasn’t crying over the fire.
She was crying over Bobby’s rideshare car, which had also been scorched.
Victor turned and stared at her with eyes that looked ready to eat people alive.
“Shut up.”
The single command cracked louder than thunder.
Her crying stopped instantly.
He pointed at the mess of illegally run wiring on the floor.
“You did this?”
Mrs. Watson’s eyes darted around. Pure instinct took over.
“No, no, not me. It was the charger. It just caught fire on its own. I’m a victim too.”
Right then, the dealership people arrived, along with the insurance adjuster. They walked around the Rolls-Royce once, then again, frowning deeper each time.
“Mr. Vega,” one of them said carefully, “the damage is significant. The paint is destroyed, the side skirt is warped, and the electrical components may also be affected. Initial estimate, including repair and depreciation, starts at seventy thousand dollars.”
Seventy thousand.
The number hit Mrs. Watson and Bobby like a hammer.
Bobby went paper white and started backing away.
Mrs. Watson rolled her eyes back and collapsed dramatically.
Faking a fainting spell.
Probably a move that had worked for decades.
It didn’t work on Victor.
“Playing dead?” he said with a cold laugh.
He gestured to one of his men.
The man walked to the wall, filled a bucket from the utility faucet, and dumped the freezing water straight over her head.
Mrs. Watson shrieked and sprang upright, soaked from head to toe.
Victor crouched in front of her and patted her wrinkled cheek twice.
“Listen carefully. If I’m short even one dollar, your son will never work peacefully in this city again. Try me.”