Chapter 4 - The Preparation
The next forty-eight hours were a terrifying, delicate game of high-stakes deception.
Willa continued to play the role of the submissive, broken wife, keeping her head down whenever Sterling entered the room.
Everett pushed himself to the absolute limits of physical endurance whenever they were entirely alone.
He forced Willa to help him sit up on the edge of the bed, agonizingly stretching his atrophied muscles to regain his balance.
He refused to let out a single groan of pain, utilizing the terrifying discipline that had made him the most feared man in the city.
On Thursday afternoon, Dr. Whitfield arrived with a thick stack of legal documents and a smug, arrogant smile.
Willa stood near the window, watching the corrupt physician prepare the final execution papers.
"Sign here, Mrs. Kane," Whitfield instructed, tossing a pen onto the small table.
"This document acknowledges your consent to terminate the artificial life support."
"If you refuse to sign, Sterling will ensure your mother is evicted from her care facility within the hour."
Willa picked up the pen, her hand shaking violently as she looked at Everett’s perfectly still face.
She signed the paper with a fake, messy signature, playing her part in the dangerous charade flawlessly.
Whitfield snatched the paper back, incredibly satisfied with his bloody victory.
"The medical team will arrive at eight o'clock tomorrow evening to perform the procedure," Whitfield announced.
"I suggest you pack your meager belongings and prepare to leave the estate."
Once Whitfield left the room, Everett slowly opened his eyes, a dark, lethal smile forming on his lips.
"He just signed his own death warrant," Everett promised softly.
"We have to get you out of this bed tonight," Willa insisted, checking the hallway for guards.
"Can you stand?"
"I will stand," Everett replied with absolute conviction.
With Willa’s desperate help, Everett swung his legs off the bed and placed his bare feet on the hardwood floor.
He grabbed Willa’s shoulders, using her small frame to balance his massive weight as he forced himself upright.
His legs trembled violently, threatening to buckle, but he locked his knees and stood incredibly tall.
He had lost weight during the coma, but his broad, imposing stature remained utterly terrifying.
"I need my suit," Everett demanded, pointing toward the heavy mahogany closet.
Willa rushed to the closet, pulling out a perfectly tailored, dark charcoal suit and a crisp white shirt.
She helped him dress, carefully hiding the medical ports that were still attached to his chest.
When he was fully dressed, he looked exactly like the ruthless mafia king who had ruled Chicago with an iron fist.
He reached back into the wall safe and pulled out a heavy, suppressed handgun, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency.
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"Stay behind me, Willa," Everett commanded, racking the slide of the weapon with a sharp, metallic click.
"The king is awake."
