The Almighty Convict's Revenge

07

In that single moment, every trace of composure drained from Alfred Parsons' face. His polished demeanor cracked, replaced by something raw and urgent. He straightened in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him, studying Curry with an intensity that hadn't been there seconds ago. His fingers, which had been loosely wrapped around his teacup, now pressed white against the porcelain.

Because the young man was right.

The Parsons hereditary affliction had haunted his bloodline for generations. It began with his great-grandfather, a creeping rot no physician of that era could name, let alone cure. Back then, medicine was crude. Those who fell ill simply waited to die, confined to darkened rooms while their families watched helplessly. Generation after generation inherited the same fate, the same slow deterioration, the same quiet funerals held too soon.

Alfred had believed modern medicine would be different. He'd poured money into consultations across every major city, sought specialists whose waiting lists stretched for months. He had flown overseas, sat in sterile offices that smelled of disinfectant and false promises, submitted to blood draws and imaging scans until his veins felt like pincushions. Every single one, after reviewing his charts and running tests, had offered the same useless expression: regret sharpened by professional helplessness. Some wouldn't even meet his eyes when delivering the verdict.

"You're right," Alfred said, his voice tight. He swallowed hard, the motion visible in his throat. "About everything. Can you actually treat it?"

Doubt lingered in his tone. This was a stranger, young, with no credentials on display. But Alfred had spent decades watching doctors fumble through diagnoses that took weeks to confirm. This man had glanced at him once and laid the truth bare as casually as reading a headline.

That alone was enough to kindle something he hadn't felt in a long time. Hope, fragile, dangerous, but unmistakable.

Curry leaned back, fishing a one-dollar pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one with unhurried calm, the flame dancing briefly before he snapped the lighter shut. "I can do more than treat your father's condition. I can cure the hereditary root entirely. After I'm done, your children, your grandchildren, none of them will carry it."

Alfred's breath caught. His lips parted, but no sound came for a moment. "Then please, Mr. Pitt, would you come with me? My father is in the hospital right now. If you can truly heal him, I'll compensate you generously. Whatever you ask."

"Sure." Curry rose and stretched, rolling his shoulders as though asked to take a walk rather than perform a miracle. He crushed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray without ceremony. "Lead the way."

Celeste Vale fixed him with a glare that could strip paint. "I'm warning you," she hissed, stepping forward and jabbing a finger toward his back. "Don't do anything reckless. If something goes wrong, don't come crying back here."

Curry didn't spare her a glance. He followed Alfred out without a word, leaving Celeste fuming in the doorway, her chest heaving with indignation.

The moment the door closed, she rounded on Belmont. Her fist connected with his shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "Are you an idiot? Why didn't you sell the painting?"

Belmont took a measured sip of tea, unbothered. His expression remained placid, almost serene, which only stoked her fury higher. "It was the first gift Curry ever gave me. I couldn't sell it."

"You don't have two coins to rub together, and you're playing at sainthood?" Celeste's voice climbed. "He walked out of Stonegate Federal Penitentiary. There isn't a decent person in that place. For all we know, he stole it. When the real owner comes knocking, we won't see a single dollar!"

Belmont set his teacup down with deliberate precision, the porcelain clicking softly against the saucer. "That was the past. He's turned over a new leaf. Don't slander him without cause."

"Keep this up," he added, voice dropping low, "and you can leave. I won't have a wife who measures people by their wallets."

"Slander?" Celeste's eyes reddened, tears welling. Her voice trembled between fury and grief. "I wasted how many years of my youth on you? You're telling me to leave?"

A deafening crash cut through the argument.

The front door flew inward. A young man strolled in wearing a fitted Armani jacket, fingers toying with an expensive ring, a lazy smirk on his lips. The scent of expensive cologne preceded him like an announcement.

"Well, well. Auntie," he drawled, surveying Celeste's blotchy face with undisguised amusement, "why so grim?"

Celeste shot him a withering look but said nothing. She wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand.

Roland Turner. Son of Belmont's elder brother, Harlan Turner. For years, Roland had schemed to undercut Mika's position in the family. He'd never quite succeeded, but his constant interference had steadily eroded Belmont's household standing within the Turner clan.

Belmont stood. "Roland. What brings you here?"

Roland twisted his ring, still smiling. The gesture was practiced, deliberate, designed to draw attention to its cost. "Tomorrow is Grandmother's birthday. Surely you haven't forgotten?"

"Of course not."

"Good. Because Grandmother has a major announcement." Roland's grin widened, turning cold. "Since Mika failed to secure the Kalyn Group contract, Pinnacle Corp's revenue has been sliding. So tomorrow, she intends to restructure certain personnel assignments."

"What?" Celeste surged to her feet. She understood immediately, and the blood drained from her face.

Mika served as General Manager of Pinnacle Corp. Roland was Deputy Manager. If Mika was removed, Roland would ascend. And Belmont's entire household would be cast into the cold.

"Now, Auntie," Roland raised his palms in mock innocence. "I came out of goodwill to give you a heads-up, and you bite the hand that feeds you? Besides, the position belongs to the most capable. Where's the treason in that?"

He turned toward the door, then paused, casting a slow look around the villa, the marble floors, the imported furniture, the crystal chandelier overhead. He clicked his tongue. "What a lovely home. Shame it'll have a new owner by tomorrow."

The door closed behind him. His footsteps faded down the path, unhurried, satisfied.

Celeste collapsed onto the sofa. "You heard him. Roland is going to throw us out. We'll be on the street!"

The villa didn't belong to Belmont. It was allocated by the corporation. Within the Turner family structure, senior executives received residences proportional to rank. As General Manager, Mika's home was second only to Matriarch Adelaide Turner's estate. If Mika lost her position, the villa would revert to the company.

For Celeste, a woman who measured her worth in appearances, the humiliation would be unbearable. She could already picture the neighbors whispering, the pitying glances, the quiet satisfaction of those who had always envied her address.

"Enough," Belmont snapped. "This isn't your concern."

"Not my concern?" Celeste's voice cracked. "I suffered alongside you for years! We finally have a decent roof, and now we're being tossed out. We could have married Mika into a wealthy family, but no, you insisted on that convict! And now everything is gone."

She kicked the sofa, then stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

Belmont sat alone in the silence, lighting one cigarette after another until smoke thickened the air. He stared at nothing, jaw tight, the only movement the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Across town, Curry followed Alfred into the inpatient wing. Their footsteps echoed against the linoleum floors, and the fluorescent lights above cast everything in a flat, sterile pallor.

Inside the Critical Care Suite, an elderly man lay motionless against white sheets, face drained of color. Monitors beeped in a slow, irregular rhythm. Every line on the screen trended downward. Tubes ran from his arms to clear bags hanging on chrome stands, dripping steadily, mechanically, as if counting down the hours he had left.

A middle-aged woman sat beside the bed, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white, lips moving in silent prayer. Dark circles ringed her eyes, evidence of too many sleepless nights spent in that uncomfortable chair.

The door creaked open. She looked up. "You're here," she said to Alfred, her voice hoarse with fatigue.

He nodded. "How is he?"

"The same. I've sent for Master Vance. If anyone can help Father, it's him." She noticed Curry and frowned, her gaze traveling from his plain clothes to his unhurried posture. "Who is this?"

"This is Curry Pitt, the son-in-law of my friend Belmont Turner's family. Curry, this is my sister, Coraline Parsons."

Coraline's frown deepened. "What is he doing here? Father's condition doesn't allow casual visitors."

"He's a physician," Alfred said carefully. "He believes he can cure Father."

A thin, scornful smile crossed Coraline's face. She'd heard that Belmont Turner was looking for a live-in son-in-law. In her experience, men who married into a woman's household were invariably the same breed: unmotivated, comfortable leeching off others, utterly without ambition. And now this one claimed to practice medicine?