CHAPTER 6
953 Words
“Who the hell are you?” the man snarled, nostrils flaring as he swung open his Ferrari’s trunk.
Chris stayed calm, arms folded, leaning casually against the very VW he’d just been mocked for. His lips twitched in the slightest smirk. “Just someone who parked first.”
The man yanked out a baseball bat. Not a plastic one either—this one looked like it had cracked home runs and egos alike.
“You smug little roach,” the man spat, holding the bat like a war trophy. “Let me teach you how the world works.”
Chris tilted his head, unbothered. “You’re really gonna commit property damage in a public parking lot over a car space?”
“You think I care?” the man barked, slamming the bat down hard on the roof of the VW. CRACK!
The sound echoed through the lot. Glass shattered. The right rear window exploded into shards.
Gasps rang out. Chris didn’t move an inch. He simply pulled out his phone and made a call, his tone still calm.
“Steven,” he said, brushing a shard of glass off his sleeve, “I think I’ll need assistance. One Ferrari driver’s about to learn that actions have consequences.”
The man laughed cruelly, tapping the bat on his palm. “Oh, please. It’s a VW. I could buy ten of these in my sleep.”
That’s when a bystander—an older man in a blue dress shirt and thick glasses—stepped forward. His eyes were wide, jaw slack.
“Wait a minute…” he whispered. “That’s not just any VW. That’s the Phaeton W12 Special Edition!”
The crowd stirred. Murmurs rippled through the bystanders like shockwaves.
The man holding the bat frowned. “A what now?”
The older gentleman adjusted his glasses and gasped. “That’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar machine! That badge on the interior? That’s the Westminster crest! This car’s almost never seen in public—it's collector level!”
The man with the bat paled. “That’s impossible. It’s just a fancy Passat—right?”
The older man scoffed and pulled out a business card. “I’m Bernard Linley, Senior Assessor at Titan Auto Insurance Group. I appraise exotic cars for a living. And that vehicle right there? You’ve just vandalized something worth more than your resale Ferrari.”
Chris turned to the man, lips quirking upward. “Second-hand, right? I heard the old owner traded it in because the seats squeaked louder than the engine.”
Laughter erupted from the small crowd forming around them. A few people had their phones out now, capturing every moment.
The bat-wielding man began to stammer. “L-look, this is a misunderstanding. I didn’t know—how was I supposed to—?”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “Funny. A second ago, you knew everything. Including that I was a loser.”
The man looked like he’d just swallowed a cactus. “I-I can pay for the damage, alright? It’s… It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” Bernard snapped. “You destroyed a factory-laminated window on a vehicle with a limited run of 100 units globally. It’s not just glass—it’s handcrafted luxury.”
“I didn’t mean to!” the man cried, backing up.
And that’s when the growl of engines filled the air.
Four matte black luxury SUVs pulled into the lot, forming a perfect square around the Ferrari.
Chris didn’t even turn. “Steven’s always dramatic.”
Doors opened, and eight men in sharp black suits stepped out, each wearing discreet earpieces and sunglasses that practically screamed, “We delete problems for breakfast.”
The man dropped the bat. “Wh-who are you?”
Chris finally pushed off the car and walked toward him. Calm. Cold. Controlled.
“You really want to know?” he said.
The man nodded, trembling.
Chris pulled out his badge—the one Steven had given him, etched with the Westminster family crest—and held it up. The sun glinted off the gold, catching every eye in the lot.
“My name’s Chris Westminster.”
Silence.
A few people gasped. Bernard nearly dropped his phone.
The man’s knees buckled slightly. “W-W-W-W-W-W-Wes…”
“Westminster,” Chris repeated, slowly, almost bored. “You know. The name behind thirty percent of the country’s economy. We probably own the air you’re breathing.”
The man collapsed to his knees. “I didn’t know—I swear! I thought you were just some… regular guy!”
Chris shrugged. “I tried to be.”
Steven stepped forward from one of the SUVs, adjusting his gloves. “Sir, shall I call legal? Or would you prefer to handle this… internally?”
Chris looked down at the trembling Ferrari owner, who now looked like a soggy tissue in an expensive jacket.
He leaned in slightly. “I was going to let it go when you insulted me. I’ve been insulted my whole life. But then you smashed what wasn’t yours. That’s where you crossed the line.”
The man begged. “Please… don’t ruin me.”
Chris paused. Then straightened.
“I don’t need to ruin you,” he said, turning toward the mall entrance. “You did that yourself.”
As he walked away, Steven fell in step beside him.
“You still wish to attend the party, young master?”
Chris glanced at his shattered window.
“Yes. But we’ll stop by another garage first. I think it’s time I stopped pretending.”
Steven nodded. “Something loud, sir?”
Chris smiled. “No. Something that makes Franklin Moyes choke on his champagne.”
- Writer
