Retribution

The distance between Michael and Amanda had grown palpable, and every argument seemed to circle back to the same point: Amanda's affair. This time, though, he had proof of it, he saw it!. Michael sat in his car, seething with rage as he gripped the steering wheel. Franklin sat in the passenger seat, a little unsure of what they were about to do but trusting Michael's lead.

"I saw them, man," Michael muttered under his breath. "The tennis coach. She's been messing around with him for God knows how long. We're following him."

Franklin raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He wasn't one to get involved in domestic disputes, but Michael had helped him out, and now he was along for the ride.

As they tailed the coach through the winding streets of Los Santos, the man was completely oblivious, driving his flashy convertible toward the rich part of town. Michael's jaw tightened as he recognized the area: Vinewood Hills, the playground of the wealthy and famous. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the sprawling mansions as they climbed higher into the hills.

Finally, the coach pulled into a driveway, casually parking his car outside a lavish home perched on the edge of a steep hill. Franklin squinted out the window. "This dude's got it made, huh?"

Michael wasn't interested in chit-chat. "Let's go," he said, getting out of the car and motioning for Franklin to follow.

They moved quickly but quietly, sneaking around the side of the property. The tennis coach had no idea he was being followed, and they watched as he strutted up to the front door, greeting someone briefly before stepping inside.

Michael's fists clenched as his anger boiled over. "That son of a bitch…"

Before Franklin could ask what the plan was, Michael's face lit up with a wicked grin. "We're gonna destroy this place."

"What? You serious?" Franklin asked, but it was too late to turn back.

Michael spotted a construction truck parked nearby and broke into it with ease. A few moments later, he was revving the engine of a massive tow truck, its powerful winch capable of pulling almost anything. Franklin hopped in beside him, and they tore through the driveway.

"Hold on," Michael growled as he slammed the truck into gear.

They backed up to the corner of the mansion, where the supports were weakest, and Michael attached the winch to a beam. With a maniacal grin, he pressed the accelerator.

The truck roared to life, and they felt the resistance as the winch began pulling on the structure. Franklin held on tight as Michael yanked harder and harder. Then, with a deafening crack, the foundation gave way, and the entire side of the house came crashing down in a cloud of dust and debris.

"Yeah!" Michael shouted, the adrenaline coursing through him. "How's that feel, huh? That's what you get!"

Franklin could only shake his head in disbelief as they watched the destruction unfold. Chunks of concrete and wood rained down the hill as the luxury home crumbled before their eyes.

"We gotta go," Franklin said, finally snapping back to reality. "Before someone calls the cops."

Michael nodded, his chest still heaving from the excitement, and they sped off, leaving the wreckage behind.

By the time they returned to Franklin's house, they had started to laugh about the whole ordeal. Franklin leaned against his car, shaking his head. "Man, I can't believe we just did that."

Michael chuckled, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Yeah, well, the bastard deserved it."

Suddenly, the mood changed. As they were about to head inside, a group of men stepped out of the shadows, led by a man in an expensive suit. His presence was commanding, and his eyes were cold and calculating.

"Michael De Santa," the man said calmly, but there was a dangerous edge to his voice. Michael instantly tensed up, recognizing who it was. Franklin took a step back, not liking the vibe.

"Who the hell are you?" Franklin asked, but Michael already knew.

"Martin Madrazo," Michael said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Madrazo's lips curled into a thin smile. "You know who I am, then. That's good. Saves us some time. You destroyed a house today, Michael. A house that did not belong to the tennis coach, but to me."

Michael's stomach dropped. His anger had blinded him to the consequences, and now he realized just how deep a hole he had dug.

Madrazo continued, his tone icy. "That house was worth millions. And now… you owe me. I want my money, Michael. Two and a half million dollars. You have a few days to get it, or things will become very unpleasant for you."

Franklin shifted uneasily, eyeing the men who flanked Madrazo. They were clearly not to be messed with. This guy wasn't just rich—he was dangerous.

Michael swallowed hard, trying to think fast. "Look, Martin, we can work this out, alright? I didn't know the house was yours. It was a mistake."

Madrazo's eyes narrowed. "Two and a half million, Michael. That's not negotiable. Find the money, or I will find you."

With that, Martin Madrazo turned and walked away, his men following closely behind. Michael and Franklin stood there, the weight of the situation sinking in. They were in deep now.

Franklin glanced at Michael. "Man, we're screwed."

Michael nodded, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, but we'll figure it out. We have to."

As they watched Madrazo's car disappear into the night, one thing became clear: they were going to need a lot of money, and fast.