Chapter 9 - The House Where Nobody Slept
That night Delia stayed.
Not because Anton asked.
Because all three children developed fevers.
Low ones.
Probably a minor virus, according to their pediatrician.
Nothing dangerous.
Still, a house already shaped by medical trauma reacted badly.
Erin panicked.
Anton became hypervigilant.
Celeste offered to return.
Anton declined.
Delia stayed.
At midnight, Lucia refused her bottle.
At twelve fifteen, Matteo vomited.
At twelve thirty, Nico began crying so hard Anton called the pediatrician again.
The doctor patiently repeated the same instructions.
Hydration.
Monitor temperature.
Watch breathing.
Call if symptoms changed.
Anton stood in the nursery clutching the thermometer.
“What if they need the emergency room?”
“They don't right now,” Delia said.
“What if we wait too long?”
“We're watching them.”
“They were born early.”
“I know.”
“You weren't there when—”
He stopped.
Delia looked at him.
“When what?”
Anton stared at Matteo.
“When his monitor stopped.”
Delia became still.
“In the NICU?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Apnea episode.”
Premature infants sometimes stopped breathing briefly.
Delia knew that.
Anton knew it too.
Knowledge didn't erase fear.
“I watched six people rush toward him.”
Anton gripped the crib rail.
“I thought I was going to lose another person before I had even learned how to be his father.”
Delia stepped beside him.
“You didn't.”
“What if—”
“No.”
Anton looked at her.
“You don't get to finish every terrible thought just because your mind produces it.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That is surprisingly aggressive advice.”
“It works.”
“You do that?”
“Constantly.”
He looked toward her.
“What thoughts?”
Delia's smile faded.
“That if I'd noticed something sooner, Samuel would have lived.”
Anton said nothing.
“That maybe I worked too much.”
“You know that wasn't your fault.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“But knowing and feeling are distant relatives.”
Anton nodded.
“I understand.”
They stood beside the crib.
Two grieving people.
Three sleeping children between them.
At two in the morning, Delia sat in a rocking chair with Lucia against her chest.
Anton entered carrying two cups.
“Tea.”
“You made tea?”
“I supervised.”
“Safer.”
He handed her one.
Anton sat opposite.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I don't.”
“Clearly.”
“How can you tell?”
“You look haunted.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
Lucia shifted.
Delia hummed quietly.
Anton watched.
“Do you ever wonder what your son would have looked like?”
Delia's breath caught.
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”
“No.”
She looked down.
“Every day.”
Anton waited.
“I think he'd have Caleb's eyes.”
“That bothers you?”
“Not anymore.”
She brushed Lucia's hair.
“He wasn't responsible for who his father was.”
Anton nodded.
“I used to imagine Samuel at every age.”
“Used to?”
“I try not to now.”
“Why?”
“Because grief can become a room you furnish.”
Anton looked at her.
“That sounds personal.”
“It is.”
She met his gaze.
“You can put a bed in there. Curtains. Pictures. Eventually you forget you're allowed to leave.”
He looked toward the triplets.
“I think I've been living there.”
“Probably.”
“You aren't gentle.”
“I am holding a sick baby at two in the morning.”
“Fair.”
He smiled faintly.
They remained awake until sunrise.
The fevers broke.
At seven, Anton finally fell asleep sitting upright in a chair.
Delia watched him.
Without the suit jacket and controlled expression, he looked younger.
Just a father.
She draped a blanket over him.
Then slipped downstairs.
Donovan was in the kitchen.
“Do you sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“You people are strange.”
He poured coffee.
“We found Elias Voss.”
Delia stopped.
“Where?”
“Baton Rouge.”
“Did he talk?”
“Yes.”
“Should I wake Anton?”
Donovan looked upstairs.
“Maybe give him ten minutes.”
“What's the headline version?”
Donovan hesitated.
Then remembered her rule.
He avoided saying there was something else.
“Voss admitted altering the files.”
Delia's stomach tightened.
“Vittorio paid him?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Why?”
“To make sure Anton never saw the continuity recommendation.”
“Why did Vittorio care so much?”
Donovan looked grim.
“He wanted Anton isolated.”
The words landed differently.
“Why?”
“Control.”
“Over the children?”
“Over Anton.”
Delia sat.
Donovan continued.
“After Isabella died, Anton was in no condition to oversee the company closely. Vittorio assumed more authority.”
“So keeping Anton overwhelmed helped him?”
“Yes.”
“That's horrible.”
“It gets worse.”
Delia pointed.
“You almost said it.”
“I stopped.”
“Good.”
Donovan gave her a piece of paper.
“Vittorio told Voss the children needed to remain dependent on household staff chosen by the family.”
Delia read.
“You mean staff Vittorio controlled.”
“Exactly.”
“Eleven nannies.”
“Most came through agencies he recommended.”
Delia stared.
“Were they bad?”
“No.”
“Then why did they leave?”
“Some were pressured.”
“By whom?”
“Vittorio's office.”
Delia went cold.
“He sabotaged childcare?”
“Not dramatically. Schedule changes. Pay disputes. Background concerns.”
“Enough instability to keep Anton exhausted.”
“Yes.”
Delia looked toward the stairs.
Anton had spent six months blaming himself because his children couldn't settle.
Vittorio had been quietly making sure stability never arrived.
“Why hasn't Anton seen this yet?”
“Because I found it fifteen minutes ago.”
“Wake him.”
Anton appeared behind them.
“I'm awake.”
His face was pale.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough.”
Donovan stood.
Anton took the documents.
He read every page.
Then sat.
No anger.
That scared Delia more.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Anton looked at Donovan.
“Nothing illegal.”
Delia blinked.
“I didn't say—”
“You were thinking it.”
“I absolutely was.”
Anton returned to the documents.
“Vittorio wants control. So I remove it.”
“From the company?”
“From everything.”
Donovan nodded.
“We can freeze his executive authority pending board review.”
“Do it.”
“Family trusts?”
“Independent audit.”
“Properties?”
“Review access.”
“Security?”
“Remove anyone hired through his office.”
Delia watched.
No threats.
No shouting.
Just decisions.
Anton looked more dangerous calm than angry.
Then Donovan's phone rang.
He answered.
“Yes?”
His expression changed.
“What hospital?”
Anton stood instantly.
“What?”
Donovan listened.
Then looked at Delia.
“Elias Voss was on his way to meet our attorney.”
“And?”
“His car was struck at an intersection.”
Delia's heart stopped.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. Injured.”
Anton narrowed his eyes.
“Accident?”
“Police are investigating.”
Delia hated where her mind went.
“Vittorio?”
Donovan shook his head.
“No evidence.”
Anton grabbed his jacket.
“I'm going.”
Delia stood.
“Why?”
“Voss may know more.”
“You have three sick babies upstairs.”
The sentence stopped him.
Anton stared at her.
She softened.
“Let Donovan go.”
Anton looked toward the nursery.
His jaw clenched.
For six months he had run toward every threat because action was easier than helplessness.
This time he stayed.
“Go,” he told Donovan.
Donovan left.
Anton sank back into the chair.
Delia poured him coffee.
“Was that difficult?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He looked offended.
“Growth usually is.”
His phone rang twenty minutes later.
Donovan.
Anton put it on speaker.
“Voss is conscious.”
“What did he say?”
“He gave police and our attorney a statement.”
Anton waited.
“He says Vittorio ordered the records altered.”
“We know that.”
“He also says Vittorio received Isabella's private medical information before the crash.”
Anton went still.
“What information?”
Donovan paused.
“A prenatal report.”
Delia felt her stomach tighten.
“What did it say?”
“That Isabella intended to change the children's guardianship structure immediately after delivery.”
Anton closed his eyes.
“And Vittorio knew.”
“Yes.”
“Before the accident.”
“Yes.”
Delia looked at Anton.
Nobody said what everyone was thinking.
Finally Anton asked:
“Did Voss say anything about Isabella's crash?”
May you like
Donovan's silence was answer enough to terrify them.
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