Chapter 1

The cheap champagne bubbled in a plastic cup, but it tasted like victory.

David, my younger brother, clutched the certificate for the Harrison Art Scholarship. His grin was wide enough to split his face.

"You did it, Davey!" I hugged him tight. "Dad would be so proud."

Our small apartment, crammed with my part-time college textbooks and his art supplies, felt like a palace tonight.

Then, a hard knock on the door.

Not the friendly kind.

I opened it to three large men. They didn't smile.

"Sarah Carter?" the one in front asked. He had a broken nose and dead eyes.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Rizzo Sr. wants this building empty by next week. He's got plans."

Frank Rizzo Sr. His name was a dark cloud over our neighborhood. Buying up everything, pushing people out. Our building was next.

"We have a lease," I said, my voice shaking a little.

"Leases can be broken," he grunted. "He's making you a small offer to leave quietly."

David stepped up beside me. "We're not going anywhere."

He was seventeen, brave, and stupid sometimes.

The man chuckled, a dry, ugly sound. "Big talk from a little artist."

One of them shoved David back. "Maybe you didn't hear right."

"Get out of our apartment," David said, his voice cracking but firm.

That was the wrong thing to say.

They pushed past me. One grabbed David. I screamed. Another one grabbed me, shoved me into the tiny bathroom, and slammed the door. The lock clicked.

I heard crashes. David yelled.

"No! My portfolio!"

Then a sickening thud. Another. And David' s cries turning into whimpers.

I pounded on the door, screaming his name.

It felt like hours. Then silence.

The lock turned. The man with the broken nose stood there.

"Message delivered. Next time, it'll be worse."

They left.

The apartment was destroyed. Furniture overturned, my books scattered, David' s canvases slashed.

And David... David was on the floor, curled up, blood matting his dark hair. His drawing hand was bent at a terrible angle.

His scholarship certificate lay torn beside him, stomped on by a muddy boot.

I rushed to him, my heart a cold stone in my chest. "Davey? Oh god, Davey."

His eyes fluttered open. Pain. So much pain.

"My hand, Sarah... my hand..."

I called 911.

At the hospital, the doctor said David had a severe concussion, three broken ribs, and a shattered wrist. His drawing hand.

"He' s lucky," the doctor said. "It could have been much worse."

Lucky.

My father, Sergeant Major Michael Carter, USMC, died a hero. He got a Medal of Honor for it. He taught us to be strong, to stand up for what's right.

Right now, I just felt small and broken, like David's art.

A neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, old and kind, had security footage. It wasn't perfect, blurry, but it showed the men entering our apartment, then leaving.

I took it to the police station the next morning.

The officer at the desk looked bored. "Fill this out."

I told him what happened. Showed him the footage on my phone.

He watched it without a change in expression. "Ma'am, this doesn't clearly show an assault. Could be anything."

"Anything? They destroyed my home! They put my brother in the hospital!"

His phone rang. He picked it up. "Yeah? Okay, got it." He hung up.

His eyes, when he looked back at me, were colder. "Look, we'll file a report. But without clearer evidence..."

Just then, a man in an expensive suit walked in. Smooth, late thirties, a smirk playing on his lips.

Tony Rizzo. Frank Sr.'s son. The sophisticated face of their rotten empire.

He nodded at the officer. "Everything alright here, Bill?"

"Just a misunderstanding, Mr. Rizzo," the officer said, suddenly very respectful.

Tony Rizzo turned to me. His smile was like a shark's.

"Ms. Carter, I heard about the unfortunate incident. Terrible. My father is very concerned."

He pulled out an envelope. "He offers this for your brother's medical expenses. And a small inconvenience fee. You just need to sign this waiver. Says it was an accident, kids roughhousing, that sort of thing."

He slid a paper across the counter. And a check. Five hundred dollars.

Five hundred dollars for David's hand, his future.

I looked at the check, then at Tony Rizzo' s smug face.

"An accident?" My voice was low, trembling with rage.

He shrugged. "Things happen. This makes it go away."

I picked up the check and the waiver.

Then I tore them both in half, then in quarters.

I threw the pieces in his face.

"We don't want your blood money. We want justice."

Tony Rizzo' s smile vanished. His eyes went hard.

"You'll regret that, little girl." He grabbed my arm, fingers digging in. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

He shoved me back a step. The officer watched, saying nothing.

Tony Rizzo smoothed his suit. "Have a nice day."

He walked out, leaving me shaking, the torn pieces of his "offer" at my feet.

Justice. It felt a million miles away.