The Mysterious Doctor

Saving a kid

Vincent stared at the five men in black suits.

His mind was spinning. De Luca. Medical empire. Billions. Sole heir.

None of it made sense. His mother had been a fragile woman who died young. She'd worked as a seamstress. She'd lived in a small house with a small garden and small dreams. She'd never mentioned any family. Never mentioned money. Never mentioned an empire.

Vincent looked at the headstone beside him. "She believed in me when no one else did."

That was his mother. The woman who held him when he cried. The woman who whispered promises of greatness in his ear. The woman who died before she could see if those promises came true.

"These are for you," the silver-haired man said.

He gestured to the other men. They stepped forward, each carrying a black box. One by one, they opened them.

Vincent's breath caught.

Money. Stacks and stacks of cash. Bound in crisp bands. More money than Vincent had ever seen in his life. Beside the money, black cards. The kind that had no limits. The kind that opened doors.

The man held out a box. "Take it. It's yours. All of it."

Vincent looked at the money. At the cards. At the five men watching him with patient, expectant eyes.

Then he looked at his mother's grave.

"I don't remember having a grandfather," Vincent said slowly. "My mother never mentioned him. Never mentioned anyone."

The silver-haired man's expression flickered. "The Old Master—"

"If he's worthy of being my grandfather," Vincent interrupted, his voice growing stronger, "why didn't my mother mention him? Why did she die alone, working as a seamstress, raising me in poverty, while he sat on his empire?"

The man opened his mouth. Closed it.

Vincent stood up. His legs were shaky, but he forced himself to stand tall. "I don't want your money. I don't want your cards. I don't want anything from a man who abandoned my mother."

"Vincent—"

"I don't even know you." Vincent's voice cracked, but he didn't stop. "You show up here, in the middle of the night, and tell me I'm something I've never been. You bring me gifts like they're supposed to fix everything. Like money can undo the years of being—" his voice broke, "—being nothing."

He turned and started walking.

"Vincent, wait!" The man called after him. "Please. The Old Master. He wants to see you. He wants to explain. To make things right."

Vincent kept walking. His footsteps crunched on the gravel path. His hands were shaking.

He heard footsteps behind him. One of the younger men caught up, holding out a small white card.

"Take this," the man said quietly. "Please. If you change your mind. When you're ready, call the number. The Old Master will explain everything. He'll give you answers."

Vincent stared at the card. Plain white. A phone number in elegant gold script.

He took it. He didn't look back.

Vincent drove. He didn't know where he was going. Away from the cemetery. Away from the men. Away from the truth that was too big to fit inside his broken chest.

The card sat on the passenger seat. He glanced at it every few seconds.

Call the line. He'll get his answers.

His mother had kept secrets. Secrets he'd never known. Secrets that could have changed everything.

But she was gone. And all he had was a card and five men who'd vanished back into the night.

Vincent pressed his foot on the accelerator.

The road stretched ahead, dark and empty. No other cars. No lights. Just the hum of his old sedan and the weight of everything pressing down on him.

Then he saw it. Headlights. Glaring through the darkness. A car had swerved off the road, wrapped around a tree. Smoke billowed from the hood. Glass glittered on the asphalt like scattered diamonds.

Vincent slammed on the brakes.

He was out of the car before it fully stopped, running toward the accident scene. The driver's side was crushed. The driver was slumped over the wheel, unmoving.

But in the backseat was a little boy. Trapped. Blood streaming down his face. His leg pinned beneath twisted metal.

He would lose his leg.

Vincent's mind went cold and clear. The way it always did in an emergency. The hesitation, the brokenness and the pain faded. There was only the boy.

Vincent wrenched open the back door. The child was unconscious, his face pale, his pulse weak.

"Stay with me," Vincent murmured. "Stay with me."

He assessed the damage. The metal was crushing the boy's leg, but the artery wasn't severed, not yet. If he could free the leg before the ambulance arrived, the boy would walk again.

Vincent worked quickly. His hands moved with precision he hadn't known he still possessed. He pried the metal back, inch by inch, ignoring the cuts on his own hands. He stabilized the leg. Applied pressure to the wounds.

The boy whimpered.

"It's okay," Vincent whispered. "It's okay. I've got you. You're going to be okay."

Sirens wailed in the distance. Red and blue lights flickered through the trees.

The paramedics arrived. They were efficient, professional. They took the boy from Vincent's arms, strapped him to a gurney.

"I'm a doctor," Vincent said, his voice steady. "Blackwod Memorial. Take him there. I'll follow."

The paramedic nodded. "We'll need you to fill out—"

"I'll be there. Just go. He's losing blood."

The ambulance sped away. Vincent climbed into his car and followed.