Robert didn't inform the board. He didn't drop his leather portfolio onto his desk; he dropped his life.
Robert didn't inform the board. He didn't drop his leather portfolio onto his desk; he dropped his life.
He bolted through the frosted glass doors of the boardroom, ignoring Vincent’s sharp call of his name. He didn't wait for the private executive elevator. He hit the emergency stairs, his leather-soled Italian shoes slapping wildly against the concrete, three steps at a time. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Ten billion dollars was burning in a room on the 50th floor, but in his mind, the entire universe had shrunk to a cold sidewalk on Lexington and 82nd.
"Get off the line! Call 911!" Robert roared into his phone as he burst through the lobby doors into the cold Manhattan autumn air.
"I tried!" the young girl's voice sobbed over the line, nearly swallowed by the roar of passing traffic. "A police car went by, but they didn't stop! People are just walking past us! They think he's sleeping or begging!"
"Stay with him! Do not touch his neck! I'm coming!"
Robert didn't wait for his driver. He ran straight into the middle of Fifth Avenue, throwing his hands up in front of a yellow taxi. The cab slammed on its brakes, horn blaring furiously. Robert pulled open the door, shoved a stack of hundred-dollar bills into the driver's lap, and snarled, "Lexington and Eighty-Second. Run every light or I’ll buy this cab company and fire you before sunset."
The driver took one look at the sheer, terrifying desperation in Robert’s eyes and slammed his foot on the accelerator.
Ten minutes later, the taxi skidded to the curb near 82nd Street. Robert flung the door open before the car even stopped moving. He saw the crowd before he saw his son—or rather, the lack of a crowd. Dozens of busy commuters in trench coats and wool jackets were hurrying past, stepping around a small figure collapsed against the brick wall of a closed bakery.
Only one person was there.
A young girl, no older than nine, wearing a threadbare denim jacket three sizes too big and scuffed sneakers, was kneeling on the cold pavement. She had ripped off her own frayed scarf and placed it under the boy's head. Her small hands were trembling violently as she held Parker’s unconscious hand.
"Parker!" Robert fell to his knees, his tailored navy suit tearing against the rough concrete.
His ten-year-old boy was pale, his lips slightly blue, his skin covered in a sheen of cold sweat. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and rapid.
"I found his phone in his jacket pocket," the girl said, wiping tears from her smudged cheeks with the back of a dirty sleeve. "He was holding his chest, mister. He said he couldn't breathe, and then he just fell."
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"Parker, buddy, look at me," Robert choked out, cradling his son's face. "Dad’s here. I'm right here."
An ambulance siren finally shrieked in the distance. Robert lifted his eyes to the little girl. In her eyes, there was no recognition of his money, his power, or his name. There was only pure, unadulterated human worry for a stranger.
