I watched them through the Bugatti’s windshield as I approached. My father, mother, and Brad were standing on the lawn with Richard Sterling, clearly mid-conversation. Dad was gesturing enthusiastically, probably telling some inflated story about his sales achievements. Mom was smiling that brittle social smile she’d perfected. Brad had his phone out, probably checking his sports betting app.
The lawnmowers stopped. Neighbors emerged onto their porches. A kid on a bicycle literally fell over, staring. The quiet suburban Tuesday morning transformed into something else entirely as the Bugatti rolled down the street like a matte black spacecraft.
“Oh my God,” I heard Brad say as I pulled up to the curb. His voice carried in the sudden silence. “That’s… that’s a Bugatti. A Chiron. That’s like, four million dollars. Who the hell…”
My father had frozen mid-gesture, his mouth hanging open. His entire body oriented toward the car like a sunflower tracking the sun. I could see the calculations running behind his eyes: Who owns this? How do I know them? How can I leverage this connection?
“Hello, sir! Sir!” Dad was already moving toward the car, abandoning Sterling on the lawn, his hand extended in greeting. “Welcome to our neighborhood! I’m Frank Miller, I work at Intrepid Tech—perhaps you’ve heard of it? If you need any assistance, or if you’re looking for property in this area, my son Brad is an excellent real estate agent…”
I let him talk. I let him walk right up to the car, watched his reflection in the tinted window as he adjusted his tie and smoothed his hair. This was Frank Miller in his element: sensing money, seeking advantage, ready to transform into whoever he needed to be to climb one more rung on the social ladder.
The butterfly doors rose with a pneumatic hiss that cut through his sales pitch. Silence fell. Every eye was on those rising doors, on the figure emerging from the driver’s seat.
I stepped out slowly, deliberately. Berluti leather shoes, hand-stitched, $3,000. Tom Ford suit, custom-tailored, $8,000. Aviator sunglasses, $600. I removed the sunglasses with one hand, folding them carefully, and looked at my father.
His face went through several emotions so quickly it was almost comical. Confusion—who is this? Recognition—wait, that’s… Denial—no, it can’t be. And finally, complete, overwhelming shock.
