Chapter 2

The police report went nowhere. "Lack of evidence."

I tried to hire a lawyer. The first one listened, then said, "The Rizzos? I can't. Conflict of interest."

The second one, a young guy eager for cases, turned pale when I said the name. "I'm sorry, Ms. Carter. My firm... we have to be careful."

Intimidation. It was a thick, invisible wall around the Rizzos.

David was in pain, his scholarship dreams turning into a nightmare. The hospital bills were already piling up.

I worked at a diner, minimum wage. Studied part-time for a business degree I wasn't sure I wanted anymore.

My father, Michael Carter. He was a Marine Sergeant Major. Died in Afghanistan. He saved his unit, including his CO, a General Miller. Dad got the Medal of Honor for that. Mom kept it in a display case. After Mom died a few years ago, it became my responsibility.

Dad always said, "Protect your own, Sarah. And never, ever back down from a bully."

The Rizzos were bullies. Rich, powerful bullies.

I had the neighbor's security footage. It wasn't great, but it was something.

I posted it online. My phone, my cheap laptop.

"This is what Frank Rizzo Sr.'s thugs did to my brother, David Carter, an art student. The police won't help. Please share."

It got a few views. Some angry comments. A little local buzz.

A small flame of hope.

Then the diner manager called me into his office. Mr. Henderson, usually a kind man.

He looked uncomfortable. "Sarah, I... I have to let you go."

"What? Why? I'm a good worker."

"Some important customers... they weren't happy about... you know... that online stuff."

Tony Rizzo's reach.

I went home, defeated. An official-looking letter was taped to our trashed apartment door.

From the art scholarship committee. "Dear Mr. Carter, due to recent information, your scholarship is under review."

Reviewed. That meant gone.

My phone rang. An unknown number.

"Ms. Carter? This is Alan Dershman, attorney for Rizzo Real Estate." His voice was slick, confident. "We see your little video. It's defamatory. Take it down immediately, or we'll sue you for everything you don't have."

"It's the truth!"

"Truth is a flexible concept, Ms. Carter. We have witnesses who say your brother started the fight. That he's a known troublemaker."

Lies. David wouldn't hurt a fly.

"Take it down," he repeated. "Or face the consequences."

He hung up.

I looked at the video online. The views had stalled.

Then, new comments started appearing.

"She's lying for money."

"Her brother is a delinquent."

"I saw it happen. The kid attacked those men first."

Paid trolls. Coerced neighbors, maybe. Mrs. Henderson, my only ally with the footage, suddenly wasn't answering her door.

A counter-narrative. Doctored "evidence" – a blurry photo of someone vaguely resembling David spray-painting a wall.

My posts started disappearing. My account was flagged, then banned.

Silenced.

David' s medical bills were a mountain. I had a little money left from Dad's military life insurance. Not much. It was supposed to be for David's college, for emergencies.

This was an emergency.

I paid the first hospital installment. It barely made a dent.

Frank Rizzo Sr. himself called me. An old, gravelly voice, full of menace.

"Little girl. Still making noise?"

"You won't get away with this," I said, my voice small.

He laughed. "I already have. That apartment of yours? My boys paid it another visit. Just to tidy up."

My blood ran cold.

"And David? Such a talented boy. Pity about his hand. Hospitals, you know, they listen to important people. People who donate. One word from me, he could find himself discharged. No bed available. Understand?"

He wanted me to sign that waiver. To say it was all an accident.

"You have until tomorrow," he said, and hung up.

I ran back to the apartment. The door was kicked in.

Inside, it was worse than before. What little we had left was smashed. Sentimental things. Mom' s old teapot.

And on the floor, amidst the wreckage, was a framed photo of Dad in his dress blues, the glass shattered, the photo itself torn in two.

That was the last straw.

I sank to my knees, tears finally coming. Hot, angry tears.

Hopeless. That' s how they wanted me to feel.

But looking at Dad' s torn face, something else sparked.

His Medal of Honor. It was in its case, tucked away in my closet, one of the few things the thugs hadn't found or hadn't cared about.

His dress blues, neatly preserved.

He faced down enemies of the country. I was facing common criminals in expensive suits.

The respect the military holds for its heroes. His brothers-in-arms.

Washington D.C.

The Pentagon. Quantico. Somewhere.

It was a crazy idea. A desperate, last-ditch gamble.

But it was all I had left.