The atmosphere inside the high-end, dimly lit cocktail lounge in downtown Los Angeles was thick with expensive cologne, loud music, and arrogant celebration.

Mark sat in a plush velvet booth, clinking a crystal martini glass against his sister Chloe’s. Chloe, wearing a designer dress she’d likely bought with my stolen money, laughed loudly, her eyes gleaming with the relief of a woman who had just dodged a bullet she entirely deserved.

“I still can’t believe you actually got the money, Mark,” Chloe squealed, taking a massive gulp of gin. “Those guys were going to break my legs. You literally saved my life. What did Elena say?”

Mark rolled his eyes, signaling the bartender for another round of exorbitant drinks.

“She was just being dramatic, as usual,” Mark scoffed, adjusting his cuffs, projecting the aura of a man entirely unbothered by consequence. “She was whining about her surgery. She’s probably called an Uber to the public hospital by now. They have to treat her. She’ll be fine. She always overreacts to get attention.”

He was prioritizing his gin martini over the fact that his wife and child might be currently bleeding to death in a suburban house.