Chapter 4 - The Recovery
Over the next two months, the Grant estate ceased to be a quiet house of mourning and transformed into a high-tech medical sanctuary.
With Angela leading the operations and my endless financial resources backing her, three state-of-the-art robotic gait-training suits arrived from Switzerland. Custom aquatic therapy tanks were installed in the indoor pool house. Two top-tier pediatric physical therapists and a specialized speech pathologist—vetted personally by Dominic’s security team—were brought on board under Angela’s direct command.
The results were nothing short of miraculous.
Phillip was the first to speak. It happened on a Thursday afternoon in late October. Angela was sitting beside him on the therapy mat, working on upper-body resistance exercises, when Phillip let out a frustrated, raspy breath.
“A... An... gela,” he managed to force out, his vocal cords weak from years of disuse.
Angela stopped instantly, her eyes filling with tears. “Yes, Phillip? I’m right here.”
“More,” Phillip whispered, his small hand reaching out to clutch her forearm. “Again.”
I was standing near the doorway, holding a stack of legal documents. When I heard his voice—the voice I hadn't heard since he was six years old—the papers slipped from my fingers and scattered across the floor. I rushed across the mat, dropping to my knees beside them, pulling Phillip into my arms. He buried his face into my chest, his small body trembling as he wept into my suit coat.
“I’m here, son,” I sobbed, holding him tight, uncaring that my tears were staining his shirt. “Daddy’s here.”
By mid-November, Eric had regained partial control of both arms, successfully holding a spoon to feed himself for the first time. Adam, whose brain had suffered the most severe trauma during the shooting, was making steady progress in the aquatic tank, swimming short distances with Angela holding his waist.
While hope flourished inside my home, the storm outside reached a boiling point.
Dr. Harrison’s signed confession hit the news cycles like an earthquake. The State Medical Licensing Board was forced to launch a massive internal investigation, completely reinstating Angela Bailey’s full medical credentials with a public apology. The pharmaceutical company testing Harrison’s suppressants saw its stock crash forty percent in forty-eight hours.
And Senator Arthur Vance was cornered.
Desperate to protect his political career and cover up his involvement in the blacklisting scandal, Vance turned to the only people who could match my power in the city: the Moretti crime family—my fierce rivals, and the very men responsible for the drive-by shooting that had paralyzed my sons four years ago.
It was a Tuesday evening when Dominic entered my study, his face darker than usual.
“Andrew,” Dominic said, setting a encrypted burner phone on my desk. “We pulled wiretaps from Don Moretti’s headquarters in West Chicago. Vance made a deal with them.”
I leaned back, my eyes narrowing. “What kind of deal?”
“Vance is offering Moretti full immunity on state shipping contracts if Moretti takes you out,” Dominic reported. “Moretti knows your boys are recovering. He knows if your family fully recovers, your grip on the city will be unbreakable. They’re planning a hit.”
I picked up the phone, looking at the glowing audio files. “Where and when?”
“They know Angela leaves the estate every Thursday afternoon under armed guard to pick up specialized medical supplies from the university vault,” Dominic said, his jaw tightening. “They’re planning to intercept her transport. They think if they take Angela out, your boys’ recovery dies with her, and you’ll go crazy enough to make a sloppy mistake.”
A cold, terrifying silence filled the study.
They wanted to take the woman who had given my children their lives back. They wanted to destroy the light in my home.
I stood up, pulling a silver-plated 1911 pistol from my desk drawer, checking the chamber with a crisp, metallic click.
“They think Angela is an easy target,” I said softly, looking out the window at the storm gathering over the city. “They think she’s just a helpless nurse.”
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“What’s the plan, Boss?” Dominic asked, a grim smile touching his scarred lips.
“Let them set the ambush,” I ordered, turning to face him. “We aren't going to send her usual escort. On Thursday, I am driving the transport myself.”
