Chapter 8
The sterile, quiet atmosphere of the pediatric recovery suite was a stark contrast to the chaos of the police precinct. Winston sat in a comfortable armchair beside the hospital bed, his heavy charcoal coat draped over the back of the chair. He had rolled up the sleeves of his black cashmere turtleneck, revealing strong, scarred forearms.
Trey was awake, sitting up in the bed. His warm brown skin was glowing with health once more, the IV lines keeping him hydrated and stable. He was busy pushing a plastic toy fire truck across his hospital tray, humming a quiet, happy tune.
"Grandpa," Trey said, pausing his game to look up. "Are we going back to the big house?"
Winston smiled, the handsome lines of his face softening completely. "Yes, little man. We are going back to the estate. But it's going to be just us now. Me and you."
"Dad isn't coming back?" Trey asked. There was no sadness in the boy's voice, only a genuine, innocent curiosity.
"No, Trey," Winston said softly, reaching out to gently stroke the boy's curly hair. "Your father and Eleanor are going to be away for a very, very long time. They broke the rules. And when people break the rules, they have to pay the price."
Trey nodded thoughtfully, accepting the logic of a three-year-old. "Okay. Can I have a puppy at the big house?"
"You can have ten puppies," Winston laughed, the sound warm and genuine.
A soft knock on the door interrupted them. Marcus stepped into the room, holding a thick, manila folder. He glanced affectionately at Trey before turning his serious gaze back to Winston.
"Boss," Marcus said quietly. "We need to talk. The forensic accounting team finished ripping through Preston's private servers."
Winston’s expression tightened. He stood up, giving Trey a reassuring wink. "Keep that fire truck revved up, little man. Grandpa has to talk to Marcus for a second."
Winston stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door partially shut behind him. The cinematic lighting of the hospital corridor caught the lethal, serious glint in his dark eyes.
"What did you find?" Winston demanded.
Marcus handed him the folder. "You were right, sir. It wasn't just cruelty. It was a calculated hit. Preston and Eleanor were completely broke. They had leveraged themselves to the hilt in bad offshore investments. But they couldn't touch the principal of Sarah's trust fund."
"Because the trust is locked until Trey comes of age," Winston finished, flipping open the folder to look at the financial documents.
"Exactly," Marcus nodded. "But there was a terrifying clause in the fine print. If Trey were to pass away before his eighteenth birthday, the entire liquid asset portfolio—nearly two hundred million dollars—would default to his next of kin. His father."
Winston felt a cold, murderous rage uncoil in his chest. They hadn't just been punishing the boy for breaking a vase. They had locked him out in a blizzard, hoping the elements would do their dirty work. They wanted a tragic accident so they could cash a two-hundred-million-dollar check.
"They sold my daughter's legacy, and tried to murder her son to cover the debt," Winston growled, his deep mahogany skin flushing with anger.
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"It goes deeper, Boss," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Look at the debt holders. The people Preston owed money to."
Winston flipped to the second page. When he saw the name at the top of the ledger, his blood ran completely cold.
