Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Hyenas
While the intensive care team worked tirelessly behind locked doors to stabilize Phoebe’s vital signs, my phone began to vibrate incessantly in my pocket.
I sat on a wooden bench in the quiet waiting alcove, staring at the incoming caller ID on the bright screen.
It was Godfrey.
When I declined the call, my mother’s number immediately lit up the display, accompanied by a barrage of frantic text messages.
“Damian, pick up this phone immediately. We need to discuss the family estate before rumors start spreading through the neighborhood.”
“Damian, your brother has an urgent commercial payment due on his garage equipment tomorrow morning. Do not be selfish with your family.”
“Damian, I am your mother. You cannot lock me out after everything I sacrificed to raise you.”
Every single line was saturated with the same nauseating entitlement that had allowed them to starve a human being for financial gain.
Not a single word in those messages asked whether Phoebe was breathing, whether she had survived the car ride, or whether she was dead.
Their only concern was the one point five million dollars they believed was sitting unprotected in my personal checking account.
I leaned my head back against the cold hospital wall, closing my eyes as the memories of the past four years washed over me.
When I left for Germany, Godfrey was a chronic gambler with two failed community college semesters and thirty thousand dollars in credit card debt.
My mother had cried at the airport, begging me to be the responsible older brother and help the family achieve financial stability.
I had worked through third-degree steam burns, dislocated shoulders, and toxic slag inhalation to send home every penny I earned.
I had eaten stale rye bread and boiled cabbage in a windowless studio apartment outside the Hamburg rail yards just to maximize my monthly wire transfers.
And all the while, my mother was hosting garden parties on custom stone pavers and Godfrey was buying scotch that cost three hundred dollars a bottle.
The heavy pneumatic doors of the waiting room hissed open, and the squeak of expensive leather shoes echoed against the linoleum floor.
I opened my eyes to see Godfrey walking toward me, having changed out of his casual sweater into a tailored charcoal blazer.
He carried a leather portfolio under his arm and wore an expression of manufactured solemnity that made my blood run cold.
“Damian,” Godfrey began, taking a seat two chairs down from me while maintaining a cautious distance.
“I know tensions were high in the backyard, man, but we need to talk like two grown men who share the same blood,” he said smoothly.
I didn't answer; I simply turned my head and stared at him with cold, dead eyes.
Godfrey swallowed nervously, adjusting the collar of his designer shirt before continuing his rehearsed speech.
“Look, Mom was harsh on Phoebe, okay? I’m not defending the way things looked back there,” Godfrey conceded, holding up his hands.
“Phoebe was deeply depressed, Damian. She refused to shower, she refused to come inside the house, and she practically chose to live in that shed,” he lied.
“Mom tried everything to get her to cooperate, but her medical bills were draining our savings dry every single week,” Godfrey claimed.
“Is that why you opened an auto repair shop downtown, Godfrey?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.
Godfrey’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second before he forced a confident smirk back onto his face.
“The shop was an investment for the entire family, Damian!” he argued passionately.
“Mom and I realized that relying entirely on your foreign paychecks wasn't sustainable in the long run!” he explained.
“We used a small portion of the surplus money to build a local business so we could take care of you when you retired from the plant!” Godfrey declared proudly.
“A small portion?” I repeated, leaning forward until Godfrey instinctively pressed his back against the plastic chair.
“I wired one hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars to Mother’s account over forty-eight months,” I stated clearly.
“Phoebe received two clinic visits that cost a combined total of six hundred and forty dollars,” I added.
“Where did the other one hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars go, little brother?” I asked.
Godfrey chuckled nervously, waving his hand as if dismissing an insignificant rounding error.
“The market fluctuates, Damian! Material costs for the house skyrocketed during the pandemic!” he said defensively.
“Besides, none of that petty change matters anymore now that your settlement has come through,” Godfrey leaned in, his eyes gleaming with greed.
“One point five million dollars changes everything for our family dynasty,” Godfrey whispered excitedly.
“I spoke with my financial advisor on the drive over here, and we can acquire the two commercial lots adjacent to my repair shop for six hundred thousand,” he pitched.
“We can consolidate the family assets under a joint family trust, with Mom and me managing the domestic investments while you take time off to heal,” he suggested.
I looked down at Godfrey’s wrist, noticing the vintage mechanical wristwatch he was wearing.
It was a solid gold Omega Seamaster that had belonged to our late father, an heirloom that was supposed to be passed to my firstborn child.
My mother had told me over the phone three years ago that the watch had been lost in a residential burglary.
Godfrey followed my gaze down to his wrist and casually pulled down his blazer sleeve to cover the golden face.
“We’re brothers, Damian. Blood is thicker than water,” Godfrey urged, reaching out to pat my knee.
Before his hand could make contact, my fingers clamped around his wrist like an industrial vice.
The force of my grip made Godfrey gasp in pain, his eyes widening in shock as his fingers splayed open.
“You have sixty seconds to get out of this hospital before I break your arm in three places,” I whispered directly into his ear.
“Damian, stop! People are watching!” Godfrey hissed, struggling frantically against the grip of a man who spent four years hammering forged steel.
“Tell Mother that her reign over my life and my wife ended the second I dropped my bag on the gravel,” I told him, squeezing tighter until bone ground against bone.
“And tell her that every single dime she spent on that house, that truck, and your pathetic little shop now belongs to me,” I added.
I released his wrist with a sudden shove, sending him sprawling backward out of the chair onto the waiting room floor.
His leather portfolio fell open, scattering glossy brochures for luxury commercial real estate across the linoleum.
Godfrey scrambled to his feet, clutching his bruised wrist to his chest with tears of humiliation welling in his eyes.
“You’re crazy, Damian!” Godfrey spat, backing away toward the automatic exit doors as nurses poked their heads out of the stations.
“Mom has full legal power of attorney over your domestic affairs! You signed it before you boarded that plane to Germany!” he yelled.
“You can’t touch a single brick of that house or a single tool in my shop without her consent!” Godfrey screamed.
The sliding glass doors closed behind him, cutting off his pathetic voice and leaving the corridor in absolute quiet once again.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a private number with a New York area code that had been programmed into my secure contacts for forty-eight hours.
The call connected on the very first ring.
“Marcus,” I said into the microphone, my voice steady, sharp, and merciless.
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“It’s time to unseal the corporate forensic files,” I commanded.
“Bring everything we found in Frankfurt straight to Ohio.”
