Chapter 15 - The Patient in the North Wing
The north wing of the estate had no electricity during the daytime; Antonio preferred the light unfiltered through leaded glass that cast long, green-tinted bars across the parquet floors. It was here that Dr. Christopher Vance—the neurologist who had spent four years pumping experimental drugs into Antonio’s veins while billing the syndicate fifty thousand dollars a month—was currently residing.
Vance sat at a small oak desk, his tie loosened, staring at a blank sheet of stationery with a shaking fountain pen.
The door clicked open. Antonio walked in without his coat, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing the faint, silvery tracks of old IV needles that looked like railroad ties across his forearms.
"You missed the three o'clock consultation," Antonio said, pulling up a chair opposite the doctor.
Vance didn't look up. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on the brass nib of his pen. "The drugs weren't meant to cure you, Antonio. You know that. The board in Zurich wanted a vegetable. A vegetable doesn't call meetings. A vegetable doesn't execute capos."
"I know," Antonio said mildly. He reached across the desk and picked up a paperweight shaped like a bronze skull. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the cold weight of the metal. "Zurich paid you two million dollars to keep my brain floating in formaldehyde while they divided the boroughs. A very clean transaction."
"They'll come looking for me," Vance whispered, his voice trembling. " Zurich doesn't lose assets."
"Zurich thinks you died in a car fire on the West Side Highway yesterday afternoon," Antonio corrected, setting the skull back down with a soft thud. "The dental records were very convincing. Dental records are remarkably easy to alter when you own the dentist and three blocks of municipal archives."
Vance swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. "What do you want? More treatments? My notes are encrypted—"
"I don't need your notes, Christopher," Antonio interrupted, leaning forward until his face was caught in the green light of the window. "I need your signature."
He slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. It wasn't a medical chart. It was a deed of transfer—signing over every square foot of property Vance owned in Switzerland, the Caymans, and Westchester County to a charitable foundation named after little Mia.
"If I sign this, I'm a beggar," Vance choked out.
"If you don't sign this, you're an obituary," Antonio replied, his voice as flat and gray as the Manhattan pavement. "And trust me, the obituary will have much worse things to say about your bedside manner."
Vance stared at the fountain pen for ten long seconds. The rain lashed against the leaded glass outside, sounding like handfuls of gravel thrown against wood. Slowly, with fingers that looked like they belonged to a skeleton, the doctor picked up the pen and pressed the nib to the paper. The scratch of ink was the only sound in the room until the signature was complete.
May you like
Antonio took the paper, blew gently on the ink to dry it, and folded it into his waistcoat pocket.
"Pack your bags, Christopher," Antonio said, standing up and smoothing down his sleeves. "The morning train for Montreal leaves at six. Take a coat. Canada is much colder than Zurich, but the air is infinitely better for your health."
