Chapter 6 - The Unraveling
Victor stood in the salty alleyway as the rain began to mist over Haven Bay.
His chest felt as if an iron band were tightening around it. The checkbook felt heavy and useless in his hand. For the first time in his thirty-four years of life, Victor Rossi had lost.
He walked back to his car, ignoring the curious stares from the locals.
When he slid into the leather seat, he didn't start the engine. He sat in the silence, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He saw a man who owned half of the eastern seaboard, a man feared by senators and criminals alike, completely powerless against a woman with flour on her nose.
His phone rang. It was Marco.
Victor hit the speaker. “What?”
Marco’s voice was frantic. “Victor, you need to get home immediately. It’s Finn.”
Victor’s blood ran ice-cold. “What happened?”
“He collapsed. High fever, dehydration. Mrs. Gable found him unconscious behind the curtains in your study. The ambulance is on the way now.”
“I’m three hours out,” Victor roared, starting the engine with a violent roar. “Take him to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital! Have the private pediatric wing cleared! If anyone touches him without my authority, I’ll bury them!”
He hung up, threw the car into reverse, and slammed the gas.
The drive back was a blur of torrential rain and suicidal speeds. Victor pushed the twin-turbo engine past 130 miles per hour, weaving through traffic with ruthless disregard for safety.
*No one is ever going to want you.*
Harper’s words echoed over the hum of the tires: *Do not use your son as a shield for your own cruelty.*
Victor wasn't just a monster to his enemies; he had been a monster to the only person who had brought light into his home. Harper had loved his son with a pure, unselfish devotion that Victor’s millions could never buy. She had held Finn through panic attacks while Victor was out ordering executions. She had hummed lullabies while Victor counted laundered cash.
And Victor had repaid her by mocking her body and her worth.
When he arrived at St. Jude’s, the private pediatric floor was locked down by armed Rossi security. Doctors in scrubs moved nervously through the corridor.
Victor stormed through the double doors, his coat soaked with rain. “Where is he?”
Dr. Alvarez, the chief of pediatric medicine, stepped forward. “Mr. Rossi, we’ve stabilized his vitals with IV fluids, but the situation is psychological as much as physical. His body is reacting to severe emotional shutdown. He’s running a 104-degree fever, his white blood cell count is elevated from stress, and he refuses to respond to stimuli. He won't open his eyes.”
Victor pushed past the doctor and entered the private room.
Finn looked impossibly small in the center of the oversized hospital bed. Wires taped to his chest monitored his erratic heartbeat; an IV line ran into the back of his tiny hand.
In his left fist, clutched so tightly his knuckles were white, was Harper’s blue knitted ribbon.
Victor walked slowly to the edge of the bed. He reached down with trembling hands and brushed his son’s burning forehead.
“Finn,” Victor whispered, his voice cracking. “Daddy’s here. I’m here, buddy.”
Finn didn't move. He didn't blink. A single tear leaked from beneath his closed eyelids, running down his pale cheek.
His tiny lips parted, releasing a cracked, dry whisper:
“Harper... where are you...”
Victor’s knees buckled.
He grabbed the metal railing of the bed to keep from falling. The suffocating weight of his own arrogance crushed down upon him.
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He had thought he was a king. But looking at his dying, broken child, Victor Rossi knew he was nothing.
***
