"Boss, I found the connection."
Hudson sat behind his massive desk, leaning back into the leather with his long legs crossed. His long fingers absently spun a fountain pen.
"Talk."
"Donovan Harrington met with Lawrence three days ago. They spent nearly an hour alone in a private room."
Hudson let out a dark scoff, dropping the pen onto the mahogany surface with a sharp crack.
Xavier's brutal beating wasn't a random schoolyard fight. Lawrence had orchestrated the entire tragedy.
"How many times did they hit Xavier?"
Arthur blinked at the sudden question. "Once to the back of the head. Two or three blows across the back. I'll need to wait for the official medical report..."
"Don't bother," Hudson interrupted coldly. "I want you to recreate that exact beating on my dear uncle. Just make sure you don't actually kill him. I just got married—a funeral would be terrible luck."
"... Understood."
"As for those punks who swung the bats, spare absolutely no one. Compile the evidence and get them thrown into Juvenile Detention. And strip their parents of everything. Burn their businesses to the ground."
"Once that's done, spread the word. If anyone ever looks at Xavier Reed the wrong way again, this is exactly what happens."
"Yes, boss."
...
A few days later.
The Harrington Family's empire completely collapsed in bankruptcy. Several other elite families were caught in the crossfire, forcing them to secretly ship their worthless heirs out of the country overnight just to survive.
Around the same time, Lawrence was stepping out of his private residence when two black SUVs came hurtling out of the alleyways, trapping his car in a brutal blockade.
Eight masked men wielding steel pipes swarmed his vehicle.
His security detail fought back ruthlessly, but they were hopelessly outnumbered by highly trained professionals. By the time the attackers retreated, the damage was done.
One of the assailants had shattered the window and swung a pipe squarely at the back of Lawrence's skull. The doctors later claimed that if the blow had been two inches lower, or hit with a fraction more force, he would have been a corpse.


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