Just before dawn, the earliest maid up for cleaning noticed something off.
No light leaked under the bathroom door, and it was dead quiet.
She hesitated, then pushed it open—
The steam had long cleared; the room was freezer-cold.
Old Mr. Williams was fully submerged in the tub's icy, crystal-clear water—still as frozen amber.
His pricey tux sucked up the water, dragging heavy downward.
Eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling—no more sharpness or authority, just blank gray death, locked in final disillusionment and wordless agony.
His hands draped limp over the tub edges, like he'd reached for something and grabbed nothing.
The hot water had gone stone-cold, just like the Williams family's scorching power and rep—their foundation had been eaten hollow by hate when nobody was looking. One gentle shove, and it all crumbled into icy silence.
Victor's revenge? One-third complete.
Official ruling: accidental slip-and-drown from extreme mental distress.
Perfect. Legal. Zero violence—no one to chase blame.
Soon after, Victor showed up sharp-dressed at Mr. Williams's funeral.
He blended in the crowd, face solemn—even heavier than the other guests.
He stepped slow to the casket, leaned in like a final goodbye.
But inches from the corpse that couldn't talk back, he whispered—ice in every word only he could hear:
"Old man, see this? That's the price. Not just you dying—I want your house shattered, your kids tearing each other apart, your bloodline stained forever.
Your second son? He'll scrape by, every day choking on pain and shame. Special 'gift' I saved for you. The Williams name? Done."
That moment, Victor didn't feel wild joy—just huge, almost empty calm.
Years of hate finally found its vent, exploded out, left cold ashes.
Revenge isn't sweet?
It's more like moonshine—burns hot down the throat, then deeper thirst and desert.
…
The funeral grief hadn't faded when Victor's blade slid out again.
Morning sun knifed through heavy velvet curtains, slicing bedroom dim.
Frankie stood in Edgar Williams's living room—the eldest son—six black-suited Horizon Security guys behind him.
They stood statue-still, muscles tight under tailored fabric, eyes blank but screaming threat.
Edgar in his robe, hair a mess, still half-asleep.
But when Frankie dropped the thick debt packet on the mahogany coffee table, Edgar went ghost-white.
Cover page screamed Debt Repayment Agreement like a gavel.
"Williams, per your father's estate after death, your debts get first dibs from inheritance."
Frankie's voice flat as weather chat, but every word an ice pick to the heart:
"Full legal docs here—including every shady deal you pulled under family company power. We've got the chain of evidence."
Edgar's hands shook.
He remembered those deals—the backroom ops he thought buried forever, cash funneled to plug his gambling holes.
He tried to argue, voice raspy like sandpaper: "This… this is slander! My father would never…"
Frankie raised a hand—one guard stepped up, silently opened proof.
Emails with underground lenders, money trails, tapes with blurry but damning transaction footage.
Edgar's breath hitched, cold sweat rolling.
He glanced around—the house he grew up in, dad's portrait on the wall staring cold.
"You can cooperate—sign, use inheritance to clear debt."
Frankie still calm. "Or we go legal. Evidence hits the courts."
Edgar eyed the stone-faced guards—hands folded, but holsters peeking.
Dad's words echoed: "John, you always think rules are for other people."
Rules caught up.
Shaking, he grabbed the pen, signed at the bottom—each stroke carving flesh. House, accounts, even his wife's heirloom jewels—poof.
When Frankie pocketed the files and turned to leave, Edgar collapsed on the couch.
Outside, moving trucks rolled up; workers cataloged stuff.
He stared at his hands, let out a choked sob.
Not grief—pure, burning rage. At dad, fate, mostly his own uselessness.
"What do I have left?"
Frankie, almost kind: "Edgar, we're friends now."
Voice turned steel: "So we don't want courts knowing this stuff. We'll take the rest later—but as long as you're breathing, you pay."
Edgar's face twisted: "What choice do I have?"
"Maybe sell your 'parts.' They fetch good money."
Frankie shrugged easy: "You know we never touch family."
…
Meanwhile, across town in a luxe apartment, Williams's youngest daughter Isabella was putting on lipstick at her vanity.
Doorbell—she figured the masseuse.
Opened to Frankie and two female Horizon finance reps—polite smiles, ice-cold.
"Isabella, we need to discuss some debts."
Frankie stepped in, eyes sweeping designer bags and jewel cases piled on the couch.
Didn't sit—just laid the loan contract and photocopies on the glass table.
Isabella drained of color.
Those pics—forced shots when she signed high-interest deals, thinking they'd vanish with payments. Proof of shame.
Fingers clenched robe till nails dug palms.
"Two choices."
Frankie's voice low, snaking in: "Legal collection—these photos go public as evidence. Or voluntarily clear with inheritance; we make the private stuff disappear forever."
Isabella's breath raced.
She stared at the young, dumb girl in the photos—sold her soul for vanity and quick highs.
Eyes flicked to dad's gift—an emerald necklace, mom's favorite.
Tears blurred, but no sound.
Terror birthed cold clarity.
She signed, handed over everything: cash, jewels, even her limited-edition Hermès bags.
When the team left, Isabella stood alone in the hollow living room.
Mirror showed not the spoiled princess—an empty shell.
Shame burned her guts, but under it, something darker grew.
So Isabella bought a gun—from a black gang Frankie controlled.
Then she vanished. Maybe San Fernando Valley, maybe formaldehyde, maybe touring Lake Michigan's bottom. Maybe all of the above.
That afternoon, Frankie hit the Chicago South Side High boardroom.
Outside, kids screamed and ran on the field—one wall away, ice-cold deal.
"Per voluntary sale by Williams heirs, all board shares transfer to Horizon Holdings."
Frankie slid files to the chair—professional smile.
"All paperwork complete, including probate court stamps."
Old chair's hands shook. He knew those shares weren't just cash—they controlled the school's future.
Tried to push back: "This is too sudden! Mr. Williams cared about education—these were for scholarships…"
Frankie cut gentle: "New owners cashing out. Totally legal."
Behind him, Horizon lawyers counted stock certs.
Through the door glass, curious kids peeked.
They'd never know this "routine" deal capped a revenge masterplan.
When Frankie stamped the transfer, sunset sliced blinds into light-dark stripes on the floor.
Victor stood atop the Williams company tower, watching daylight fade.
Two years of patience, countless nights plotting—perfect now.
Frankie stepped out the school gates; Chicago evening wind cooled his face. Corner shadow—Edgar Williams, eyes blazing hate.
Their stares locked, no words.
Two guys grabbed Edgar, ether rag over mouth-nose. Then Edgar "voluntarily" signed—guts emptied, skeleton sold for lab use.
His family?
Heartbroken, naturally—followed him. Cut the grass, kill the roots, or spring breeze blows again.
…
"Blair, I swear this is the last time."
"I don't get it—what are you worried about? Dove stealing the nest? David vs. Goliath? It's all within U.S. law!"
"Casinos are legal, so gambling debt is too—everything's above board. Edgar and Isabella? They won't speak up."
"Relax—I gave them an offer they can't refuse. Silence guaranteed."
"I hear you, but you should be inventorying assets. Williams Corp covers education, supplies, cafeteria, uniforms, ads—perfect fit for us. That's your CEO job, not grilling me for turning seven mil debt into hundreds of mils in property!"
…
"Frankie, rename Williams High—call it Horizon High, like the elementary. Full enrollment."
", Black… everybody. Same tuition."
" kids too—no exceptions."
"Tell the parents: bring school receipts—if it's our companies, full reimbursement. Outside but stamped? Half."
"All fees!"
"You nuts, Frankie? Too obvious—can't discriminate. Just build the cafeteria, use our food… others who don't switch leave on their own!"
"Complaints? Tell child protection we control unstable elements till 18 with less than a third the cash—they should give us medals!"