Vivian looked even more pitiful, his voice trembling with rehearsed fragility: "As long as my brother is willing to come home, I'll give him back his rightful place in the family. I don't want anything for myself..."

The comments section beneath the broadcast was a cesspool of abuse. The public had been whipped into a frenzy, demanding a full investigation into the Dunn family. The Hardings were weaponizing the media and their connections to back us into a corner with no way out.

"Young Heir, we've got a problem!" Harry burst out of the elevator.

"Quinton Harding's here with cops and health inspectors! They're claiming we're holding Thomas against his will and demanding to search the hospital!"

"And there's more. A whole squad of mercenaries has the building surrounded. Our guys can barely hold the line!"

I walked to the window and looked down.

The hospital courtyard was swarming with armed officers and black-clad private security, shoulder to shoulder.

Quinton sat in a wheelchair with bandages wrapped around his head, a bullhorn raised to his lips as he shouted up at the building.

"Reginald Dunn! You're surrounded!"

"Hand over Thomas Harding and turn yourself in! Otherwise, today is the end of the Dunn family!"

Malcolm grabbed my arm. "Reggie, don't go out there. Let me handle them. If it comes to it, we go back to the old ways and fight."

I looked at the gray streaking my father's temples, and something twisted in my chest.

A mortal, even a syndicate boss, was still nothing against a dynasty backed by real money and real power. Fragile as glass against a battering ram.

But I was no mortal.

"Dad, stay here and watch over Thomas."

I shrugged off my blood-stained jacket and rolled up my sleeves.

"The Hardings want to crush me? Today I show them who really holds the power."

I shoved open the corridor window. Before anyone could react, I vaulted over the ledge and dropped three stories straight down.

BOOM.

I landed square on top of the fountain statue in the hospital courtyard, the impact sending a shockwave through the stone.

Within seconds, over a dozen gun barrels swung toward me in unison, black muzzles steady and cold.

Foreign mercenaries. Quinton had paid top dollar for them.

Quinton sat in his wheelchair, and the moment he saw me land, a flicker of manic satisfaction lit up his eyes.

"Well, well. You've got guts, I'll give you that."

"Unlawful detention. Assault. Aggravated battery." His lips curled into a sneer. "And let's not forget the Dunn family's colorful history. You're going to rot in prison until the day you die."

Vivian wheeled Quinton forward, dressed in a loose white hospital gown that made him look every bit the delicate victim. He stepped around the chair and sighed at me, dripping with false sympathy.

"Mr. Dunn, why do you insist on making this harder than it needs to be?"

"Just hand my brother over to me. One small bone marrow procedure, that's all. I promise the Harding family will drop every charge."

"Surely you don't want your father, at his age, catching a bullet alongside you?"

The words had barely left his mouth when the courtyard's iron gates groaned open. Several officers shoved a familiar figure through.

It was my father. He must have gone downstairs while I wasn't looking. They had him pinned to the ground, faces pressed into concrete.

"Get off me! You spineless dogs, licking the boots of the rich!" Malcolm thrashed against them, but it was no use.

Quinton looked down at him from the wheelchair, then nudged my father's face with the toe of his shoe.

"Boss Dunn, times have changed. Money and power make the rules now. That street-thug code of yours? Take it to the gutter where it belongs."

"Go to hell!" Malcolm spat a mouthful of bloody foam.

Quinton's expression darkened. He raised his hand and slashed it through the air. "Beat him."

A cluster of bodyguards closed in and laid into my father with fists and boots.

"Stop!" I roared, lunging forward.

Click.

Three submachine gun barrels pressed against my temples simultaneously.

The lead mercenary spoke in stilted English. "Mr. Dunn. Don't move. Bullets don't have eyes."

Quinton watched me pinned down, his laughter wild and unhinged.

"Reginald! Thought you were tough, huh? Thought you could fight your way out of anything?"

"Go ahead. Hit me again. I dare you."

He struggled out of his wheelchair, limping toward me one agonizing step at a time, and raised his hand.

"That slap from earlier? I'm paying it back tenfold."

His hand came down hard.

But the slap never landed.

Because I caught his wrist mid-swing.

Quinton froze. The mercenaries instantly jammed their muzzles harder against my skull. "Let go! On your knees!"

The Harding bodyguards, the police, every single person surrounding us looked at me the same way. Like they were staring at a dead man.

In their eyes, I was a cornered ant about to be ground into nothing.

Power. Money. Firepower. Public opinion.

Every weapon the mortal world had to crush a man was stacked on top of me in that moment, layer after suffocating layer.

I looked at Quinton's face, that smug, sanctimonious mask stretched to its limit.

I looked at Vivian behind him, hand pressed over his mouth in mock horror, eyes glittering with barely concealed excitement.

I looked at my father, pinned facedown on the ground.

And I laughed.

Louder and louder.

In the dead silence of that circle, the sound was unnerving.

Quinton yanked his wrist free, skin crawling. "Have you lost your mind? What the hell are you laughing at?"

I stopped laughing. Slowly raised my head. Glanced at the overcast sky.

"I'm laughing at you," I said quietly. "All of you. You're pathetic."

"You think a few dollars and a few connections mean you control everything?"

"You people. You mortals. What are you, exactly?"

"I am the Thunder Lord."