Chapter 6 - The San Diego Dispatch
By June 2026, the Chicago winter had been replaced by the long, hot hum of the California summer. The Scripps Memorial Pavilion in La Jolla sat on a high cliff above the Pacific, its white stone terraces looking out over an ocean that was so blue it looked like a drawing from a children’s book.
Vincent sat in a cane chair on the third-floor terrace, a laptop open on his knees, a stack of logistics reports from the Chicago rail yards sitting untouched on the small glass table beside his coffee.
Noah and Lily were down on the grass below, running through the sprinklers with two of the clinic’s physical therapists. Noah was wearing blue swim trunks, his chest brown and solid from the sun, his ribs no longer showing through his skin like the bars of a cage. Lily was chasing a big leather beach ball, her laughter rising up the cliffside like the sound of silver bells.
"The counts are completely normal, Vincent," Dr. Harper said, walking out onto the terrace with a fresh folder. She looked relaxed, her white coat open over a summer dress. "The gene therapy took. The cellular structure has stabilized across both lines. We’re discharging them on Monday morning."
Vincent closed his laptop with a soft click. He stood up, looking down at his children as they rolled through the green grass with the dog from the therapy ward. "They’re clear, Evelyn? Permanently?"
"Permanently," she smiled, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "They’ll need standard checks every six months, but the sickness is gone. They have the blood of regular seven-year-olds now."
Vincent looked out at the ocean, his hand instinctively reaching into his pocket for his gold fields lighter. For three years, his life had been a calculation of minutes, an administrative ledger of blood counts, oxygen levels, and the constant, suffocating fear that he would be left alone in that big stone house on the South Side with nothing but his father's old guns and an empty empire.
"Mason called from Chicago an hour ago," Vincent said, his voice quiet. "Sal Moretti’s crews tried to move on the Blue Island yard last night. They thought I was too far away to notice."
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Dr. Harper’s smile faded slightly. "What are you going to do, Vincent?"
"I’m going home, Evelyn," Vincent said, turning around and picking up his laptop. "But I’m not going back to the old boardroom. Tell the transport team to prep the private line for Monday afternoon. We have an appointment with a maid in Peoria."
