The waiting room of the private hospital wing feels like purgatory. Sanitized misery encased in taupe walls and uncomfortable chairs. Vince hasn’t moved from his rigid position at the window for over an hour. Nor have his hands relaxed. Still bloodstained, they’re clenched into fists so tight I can see the tendons straining beneath his skin from where I sit.
If rage had a scent, the room would be suffocating with it.
“You can’t go after your father,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “Not now. We still have the FBI circling.”
Vince doesn’t turn around. “Watch me.”
“That’s exactly what he wants.” I stand and go to him. “He knows you’ll come charging after him. He’s counting on it.”
His laugh is hollow, gutted. “And what would you have me do, Rowan? Send him a f*****g fruit basket an
