Their headlights cut through the growing dusk, neon signs flickering to life one by one as traffic swallowed the scene whole. The armored SUV pulled ahead, lights still flashing but siren now silent—no need to announce urgency anymore. Control had been established. Procedure had taken over. Lewis Bugatti's once-pristine body told a violent story now. Bullet scars spidered across the rear quarter panel. One headlight was fractured, its beam diffused and uneven. The windshield bore a long, ugly crack on the passenger side, webbed where a round had struck but failed to fully penetrate. The side glass was half-shattered, with reinforced laminate holding together just enough to keep the cabin sealed from the night air. Inside, the leather still smelled faintly of cordite and hot metal. He kept both hands steady on the wheel, posture relaxed but alert. His eyes tracked the armored SUV ahead without fixation, scanning mirrors, side streets, and reflections in storefron

They kept dragging him forward, his polished shoes scraping harshly against the concrete as the night air swallowed the last echoes from inside the building. His head snapped sideways—he saw Lewis and Maria. Samuel’s eyes locked onto them, blazing with something feral—rage stripped bare of calculation. “This isn’t finished,” he snarled, his voice hoarse but sharp enough to cut. “You hear me, Lewis? I will bury you. I will tear everything you touch apart!” Lewis didn’t quiver but stood boldly, as always. He stepped half a pace forward, instinctive and protective, placing himself subtly in front of his mother. Maria’s breath caught, but her spine stayed straight. Samuel laughed suddenly—ugly and unhinged. “Enjoy tonight!” he spat as the officers forced him onward. “PTEW!” “It’s the last time you’ll sleep peacefully.” A court officer tightened his grip, calm and practiced. “That’s enough, Mr. Gordon,” the officer said evenly. “Keep moving.” Outside, th

Lewis boldly moved first. The moment the final echo of the slammed golden door faded, he turned sharply and headed down the passageway, his long strides purposeful. The corridor lights sensed motion and bloomed to life one after another, casting warm gold reflections off framed oil paintings and polished brass fixtures as usual. Maria followed closely behind him, her heels clicking faintly against the marble floor, her breathing still uneven from the confrontation. “Lewis—” she began. “I know,” he said quietly, without slowing. “Just stay with me.” They reached the side entrance overlooking the driveway. Lewis didn’t hesitate. He reached the golden handle and pulled the door open. Cold night air rushed in. Headlights flared. Carolina was already outside. She stood beside a sleek black Tesla Model X, the driver-side door open, her posture rigid with fury. Her coat hung loosely over her shoulders, hair still wild, eyes burning like coals. She had just slid in

Minutes later, they stepped into the courthouse under the sharp guidance of uniformed court officers. The marble floors echoed faintly beneath their shoes, a hollow, dignified sound that contrasted the city’s chaos outside. The officers motioned them toward a row of seats against the far wall, near the entrance to the main courtroom. “Right here, please,” one of the officers said, his voice firm yet neutral. “Stay seated until your name is called.” Lewis and Maria complied, sliding into the polished wooden chairs. The morning sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting long, narrow beams that caught the edges of dust in the air. They sat calmly, their posture composed but alert, eyes tracking the comings and goings of clerks, lawyers, and other spectators. As the minutes ticked by, Lewis leaned slightly toward his mother, lowering his voice to a quiet murmur. “Remember months ago,” he began, “when Nolan and Vince tried to frame me? The so-called funds allegati

Then she folded her hands once on the bench, the soft thud of skin on polished wood silencing the low murmur that still lingered in the gallery. “Mr. Richmond,” she said evenly. “You may proceed.” The Assistant District Attorney, a lean man in his early forties with close-cropped hair and a voice sharpened by years of arraignments, stepped forward. His suit was plain, navy, unadorned—authority without ornament. “Yes, Your Honor.” He turned slightly, addressing the court, his words carrying without effort. “This case arises from a coordinated criminal act that occurred three days ago in Brooklyn, spanning multiple locations and involving extreme public danger.” A ripple moved through the gallery. Samuel Gordon’s jaw tightened. Mr. Richmond continued, measured and precise. “The defendant, Samuel Gordon, is charged with kidnapping in the first degree, conspiracy, reckless endangerment, assault on law enforcement, and obstruction of justice.” Gasps broke free thi