Chapter 8 - The Saint Jude ClinicThe abandoned clinic was a hollow, concrete ghost of the city’s past. Shadows danced on the cracked walls as the storm outside began to die down, leaving only a steady, rhythmic drip of water from the leaky ceiling.
Fiona sat on a rusted examination table, holding Arthur close to her side. The silence of the clinic was deafening, broken only by the sound of their own breathing.
At exactly 4:00 AM, the heavy wooden doors at the entrance creaked open.
A single set of heavy, measured footsteps echoed through the hallway.
Fiona stood up, placing her body between the doorway and Arthur. She reached into her pocket, her fingers wrapping around the handle of her trauma shears.
Dominic Costello stepped into the room.
He looked exhausted. His dark hair was damp, his expensive charcoal suit jacket missing, and his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His icy blue eyes swept the room, instantly locking onto his son.
"Arthur," Dominic breathed, taking a step forward.
"Stay back, Dominic," Fiona warned, her voice steady but sharp. "If your guards are outside, tell them to leave. If Victoria is with you, this conversation is over."
Dominic stopped. He looked at Fiona’s bruised arm, the dried blood on her sweater, and the fierce, protective stance she held over his son.
"I came alone, Fiona," Dominic said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Alvarez called me directly. He told me what you said. Where is the proof?"
Fiona picked up the bloody pillowcase from the table and threw it at his feet. The fabric parted, and dozens of rusted, amber-tipped hollow needles spilled onto the dirty concrete floor.
"Dr. Reed designed that custom pillow," Fiona said, her voice dripping with venom. "Every time Arthur went to sleep, the weight of his head pushed those needles into his neck, injecting him with micro-doses of Succinylcholine. Victoria was paying Reed fifty million dollars from Arthur's trust fund to make his death look like a natural neurological failure."
Dominic knelt. He picked up one of the needles, his massive hand shaking as he looked at the rusted tip. The realization of what had been done to his only child in his own home, under his own nose, hit him like a physical blow.
"My boy..." Dominic whispered.
"Daddy!" Arthur cried out, running past Fiona and throwing his arms around his father's neck.
Dominic scooped the boy into his arms, holding him so tight his knuckles turned white. He buried his face in Arthur's dark hair, his broad shoulders shaking with a silent, heavy sob.
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He looked up at Fiona, his icy blue eyes now burning with a lethal, terrifying rage—but also, a profound, debt-bound gratitude.
"They will pay for this," Dominic whispered. "Every single one of them."
