FROM PRISON TRASH TO GOD OF WAR

Chapter 7: Breaking Bones

Robert's face transformed from confusion to pure elation in the span of a heartbeat. He ended the call and threw back his head, laughing with manic relief.

"You're FINISHED!" His voice echoed off the chandelier crystals. "General Hawthorne himself is sending troops! Military police! Armed soldiers! They'll be here in minutes!"

Victoria stopped trembling, hope flickering in her eyes. "The military? Oh thank God, thank God..."

Jason clutched his father's arm. "They'll arrest him, right? Court martial? Execution?"

"Better than that," Robert crowed, his confidence flooding back like a dam bursting. "General Hawthorne takes disruption of military functions VERY seriously. Alexander just assaulted forty men at a banquet meant to honor the War God himself!" He pointed at Alexander with a shaking finger. "You're going to be dragged out of here in chains and thrown in a hole so deep they'll forget you exist!"

The guests stirred, relief washing through the crowd. The natural order was reasserting itself. The powerful would win, as they always did.

"I knew the Thompson family had real connections," Margaret whispered loudly.

"A four-star general! Can you imagine?"

"That lunatic is done for!"

Alexander remained seated, perfectly still, watching Robert's celebration with cold amusement. Then he stood, walked to a nearby chair, and dragged it across the floor with a screech that made everyone flinch. He positioned it facing Robert and sat down, crossing one leg over the other with casual elegance.

"I'm curious," Alexander said, his tone conversational. "Who exactly do you think is coming to save you?"

Robert's laughter grew louder, more desperate. "General Bradley Hawthorne! The man who arranged this entire event! The man with command over fifty thousand troops! That's who!"

Alexander’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second, but not with fear. He almost wanted to laugh.

Bradley Hawthorne. A man who, just six months ago, had crawled through the mud in a rainstorm to beg for a chance to serve in his shadow. A man who was nothing more than a mid-level adjutant tasked with managing Alexander’s administrative scraps.

To Robert, Hawthorne was a great general. To Alexander, Hawthorne was the man who fetched his coffee and filed his reports.

Alexander looked up, a thin, lethal smile spreading across his face. "In that case, let’s wait for him. I’d hate for your hero to miss the show."

"He's already dispatched a unit!" Robert's chest heaved with triumph. "You have minutes left, Alexander. Maybe seconds. If you beg—and I mean REALLY beg—I might tell him to make your death quick."

"How generous." Alexander's smile was razor-thin. "You know, Uncle, I was just thinking about five years ago. Do you remember?"

Robert's grin faltered slightly. "What?"

"The night you had me beaten. You gave very specific orders to your men." Alexander's voice remained pleasant, almost friendly. "You told them to break every bone below my neck. One by one. You wanted me to feel every single break."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"I remember lying on that courtyard floor," Alexander continued. "Listening to my bones crack. Watching you smile. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

Robert's face went pale, but he forced a laugh. "Ancient history! The military will be here any—"

"Marcus," Alexander said calmly, not taking his eyes off Robert. "Break every bone in my uncle's body. Below the neck. One by one."

Marcus Bennett stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.

"WAIT!" Jason jumped in front of his father, arms spread wide. "You can't! Don't you dare! General Hawthorne will be here any second! You'll regret this! You'll—"

"Oh, Jason." Alexander's laugh was devoid of warmth. "Still trying to play the brave son? How touching."

"I mean it!" Jason's voice climbed higher. "You touch him and you're dead! We're connected to the MILITARY! Real power! Not whatever pathetic—"

"Then you can take his place."

Jason's mouth snapped shut. His face went from red to white in an instant.

"What?"

"You heard me." Alexander leaned back in his chair. "You can't bear to watch your father suffer? Fine. Suffer for him instead."

"I... I didn't..." Jason stumbled backward. "Father, I was just trying to—"

Robert's hand shot out, grabbing Jason's wrist with surprising strength. His eyes had taken on a feverish gleam, darting between his son and Marcus's approaching form.

"Jason," Robert said slowly. "This is your chance."

"What?" Jason tried to pull away. "Father, let go—"

"To prove your loyalty. To show you're a real Thompson." Robert's grip tightened. "Take the pain. Just for a few minutes. General Hawthorne will arrive, and then we'll make Alexander pay a thousand times over."

Jason's eyes went wide with horror. "You... you can't be serious..."

"I raised you. Fed you. Gave you everything." Robert's voice took on a wheedling quality. "This is how you repay me. Endure this small sacrifice, and I'll give you the company. The entire estate. Everything."

"Small sacrifice?!" Jason tried desperately to wrench free. "He's going to break my bones!"

"And they'll heal!" Robert snapped. "But if we both go down, the family is finished! Think, boy! Use your head for once!"

"Father, please—"

"DO IT!" Robert screamed, shoving Jason forward. "Prove you're my son!"

The ballroom had gone silent. Even the injured thugs stopped groaning to watch this grotesque display.

Victoria covered her mouth, but didn't intervene. Her eyes calculated, weighing options.

Alexander watched the scene with something approaching wonder. "Remarkable. I've seen a lot of evil in my life, Uncle. But watching you sacrifice your own son to save yourself?" He shook his head slowly. "That's a new low, even for you."

"Shut up!" Robert snarled. "You don't understand family! Jason, stop being a coward! Take the pain!"

"I..." Jason looked around desperately for escape, but Marcus blocked his path. His father held him from behind. He was trapped. "I can't... please, I can't..."

"Pathetic," Robert spat. "I should have had a daughter instead. At least Victoria has backbone."

Alexander's laugh rang out, sharp and cruel. "This is what you've become, Uncle? A man who'll throw his own child to the wolves?" He nodded to Marcus. "Do it."

Marcus moved like lightning. His first strike hit Jason's left collarbone. The crack echoed through the silent ballroom like a pistol shot.

"AHHHHH!" Jason's scream was inhuman, primal. He crumpled, but Marcus held him upright.

"One," Alexander counted calmly.

The second strike. Right collarbone. Another crack. Another scream.

"Two."

"Stop! STOP!" Jason sobbed hysterically. "Please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything!"

"Left shoulder."

CRACK.

"Three."

Jason's screams devolved into incoherent wailing. Tears and snot streamed down his face. His body convulsed with each impact.

Robert stood frozen, his face a mask of conflicting emotions—horror, guilt, but underneath it all, relief that it wasn't him.

"Right shoulder."

CRACK.

"Four."

"MAKE IT STOP!" Victoria finally found her voice, but she didn't move toward her stepson. "Robert, do something!"

"I... I can't..." Robert's voice was barely audible. "The general is coming. We just have to wait..."

"Left arm, upper bone."

CRACK.

"Five."

Jason's screams had faded to broken whimpers. His eyes rolled back, consciousness flickering.

"I'm bored," Alexander announced. "Finish the rest quickly."

Marcus nodded. In rapid succession—CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK—he systematically broke Jason's remaining arm bones, then moved to his ribs.

Jason's body jerked with each impact, but he was beyond screaming now. Just twitching and gasping like a broken puppet.

After the twelfth break, Jason finally passed out, his body going limp in Marcus's grip. Marcus let him drop to the floor, where he lay in a crumpled heap, limbs bent at wrong angles.

"Jason!" Victoria finally rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside her stepson. "Oh God, oh God..."

But even as she checked his pulse, her eyes kept darting to the ballroom entrance, waiting for salvation.

Robert stared at his son's broken form, his face working through emotions too complex to name. "You... you monster..."

"Monster?" Alexander's laugh was cold. "I learned from the best, Uncle. You taught me that family means nothing. That blood is just something to be spilled when convenient."

He stood, walking slowly toward Robert, who backed away on instinct.

"The difference between us," Alexander continued, "is that I'm honest about what I am. You hide behind respectability. Behind wealth and influence." He gestured at Jason's unconscious form. "Behind your own son, apparently."