Chapter 7 - The Cost of Regret
Julian Vance marched into the private wing wearing a tailored three-piece suit, his hair slicked back with expensive pomade. Behind him, two hospital administrators were frantically trying to bar his path.
“Grace!” Julian called out with a smug, condescending grin. “I got a notification from our old joint account credit line that you were admitted to Hawthorne’s VIP suite! Who’s footing the bill, Grace? Did you find some elderly sugar daddy to cover your little bastard?”
Julian froze mid-stride as two enormous men in dark suits stepped in front of him, their shoulders as wide as doorways.
Grace gripped the hospital sheet, her knuckles turning white. “Julian, get out. How did you even find me?”
“I have rights!” Julian sneered, puffing out his chest. “If you’re suddenly rolling in luxury money while claiming you can’t afford prenatal care, that changes things! If that baby is mine, I have parental claims—or maybe a settlement to sign so I don’t tell your wealthy benefactor about your background!”
Vincent Caruso stepped out from the shadow of the curtain.
He didn't yell. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply walked toward Julian with the slow, terrifying grace of a predator that had already decided how the prey would die.
Julian’s sneer vanished instantly. His eyes widened in sheer, paralyzing horror as he recognized the man standing six inches from his face. Every lawyer in Philadelphia knew Vincent Caruso. Judges bowed their heads to him; district attorneys avoided his gaze.
“J-Julian Vance,” Vincent said softly, checking a silver signet ring on his finger. “Associate at Miller & Vance. You stole eight thousand dollars from this girl’s savings account three months ago. You left her in a winter apartment without heat.”
“M-Mr. Caruso—sir—I didn't know—she was just a janitor—” Julian stammered, his knees shaking uncontrollably.
Vincent slapped him.
The strike wasn't hurried, but it sent Julian crashing across the tiled floor, spitting blood and a broken tooth onto the polished stone.
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“That janitor,” Vincent whispered, leaning over the trembling young man, “is my daughter. And the child she carries is the sole heir to the Caruso legacy.”
***
