Chapter 9 - The Anatomy of Execution
“The lake house in Como?” Eleanor began, gesturing gracefully toward the glossy photograph lying near Caleb’s feet. “It was condemned three weeks ago due to foundation slippage caused by illegal retaining walls you built without permits. By assuming full personal liability, Seraphina and her son are now responsible for twelve million euros in civil remediation fines issued by the Lombardy regional council.”
Seraphina let out a broken wail from the floor, burying her face in her hands, her gold buttons gleaming in the harsh fluorescent glow of the monitors.
“The horse farm in Saratoga?” Eleanor continued, her voice remaining low, soothing, and utterly merciless. “Pledged entirely to the Internal Revenue Service as a security bond for your unfiled capital gains taxes from 2018 to 2024. If they seize it, Seraphina, you have forty-eight hours to vacate the premises before federal marshals padlock the stables.”
Eleanor picked up the miniature silver model of the Vance ancestral mansion from the bedside table. She weighed it in her palm for a moment, admiring the craftsmanship, before placing it gently into Caleb’s open, ink-stained palm. His fingers weakly curled around the cold metal, unable to push it away.
“And this room,” Eleanor said, looking around the expansive suite with its tall windows, its lavish floral arrangements, and its state-of-the-art medical technology. “This private suite is funded under the executive health package of Vance Holdings. But as of four o’clock this afternoon, the board voted unanimously to terminate your employment for cause, freeze your severance, and strip your executive health privileges.”
May you like
Caleb’s eyes widened to the point of tearing. The oxygen mask fogged rapidly with his panicked gasps. His chest heaved against the telemetry leads, the adhesive pads peeling away from his sweaty skin. The monitor’s alarm began to chime in sharp, two-tone urgency—a high-priority warning that his ventricular rhythm was spiraling out of control.
“In precisely twenty minutes,” Eleanor said, smoothing down the front of her royal-blue gown, “the hospital administration will arrive to transfer you to the public palliative ward on the second floor. It is a shared room, Caleb. Four beds. Fluorescent lighting. Very little sunlight. But don’t worry—your mother can keep you company. Assuming, of course, she can afford the bus fare after her credit cards are declined tonight.”
