He Killed My Mother,Now I Control His Fortune

His wife's eyes were red too.

“Sir, our family really needs the money. You can't do this to us. Everyone else has signed already, and you're holding up our family alone. How is that fair?”

Fair.

When I heard that word, I nearly laughed.

Thirty years ago, my father knelt outside the District Office, begging them for an explanation.

They said the same kind of things.

“Stop causing trouble. Geoffrey Whitney has it tough too.”

“You're all neighbors. You see each other every day.”

“The man's got a business to run. You people blocking his door all the time, isn't that bullying?”

Back then, nobody asked if my mother was in pain.

Nobody asked why my father's hair turned white overnight.

And nobody asked whether an eight-year-old boy who watched his mother fall from the thirtieth floor would have nightmares for the rest of his life.

Geoffrey saw me go quiet and took it as a crack in the wall.

He nudged the carton of cigarettes closer to me.

“Sir, let's talk this out. Whatever paperwork we need to file, we'll file it. Whatever dinners need buying, consider them bought. How about this: tonight's on me. We'll find a nice spot, sit down, have a proper chat.”

I looked down at the two cartons of cigarettes.

A few seconds passed. Then I reached out and picked them up.

Geoffrey's eyes lit up.

The next second, I tossed them into the trash can beside my desk.

“Geoffrey Whitney.”

It was the first time I called him by his full name.

The smile on his face collapsed completely.

I looked at him and said, word by word：

“Your household isn't just having its contract suspended.”

“Starting today, your entire compensation eligibility is under comprehensive review.”

“If you want to claim commercial-rate compensation for that storefront, you'll need to prove it was a legally operated business from day one.”

“And if the investigation finds any unauthorized electrical wiring during its years of operation, your compensation bracket gets recalculated.”

“Are we clear?”

Ronald's face went scarlet.

“You're screwing us over on purpose!”

He opened his mouth to keep going, but Geoffrey grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

“Ronald. Enough.”

His voice dropped all at once.

The slick, oily expression he'd worn moments ago crumbled.

He stared at me, lips twitching, like something had been building inside him for a long time.

Then, Geoffrey Whitney dropped to his knees.

He knelt on the floor, both hands gripping the edge of the table, face tilted up toward me. His eyes turned red in an instant.

“Sir, I'm begging you.”

“I'm begging you.”

His voice shook. He sounded like he'd aged ten years in a breath.

“I know you people in charge can decide whether folks like us live or die with a single word. But my family can't wait any longer.”

Geoffrey wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I have liver cancer.”

The moment those words left his mouth, every voice near the conference room door went silent.

At some point, a crowd of residents from the demolition zone had gathered outside.

In an old neighborhood facing teardown, every dollar of someone's compensation was everybody's business.

The Whitneys had been causing a scene since they arrived, and people had been craning their necks down the hallway for a while now.

But the word "cancer" changed every face in that corridor.

Ronald's eyes went red as he rushed to help his father up.

“Dad, get up. We don't beg him.”

Geoffrey shook off his son's hand.

“If I don't beg him, what am I supposed to do?”

He turned toward the crowd in the hallway, and his voice caught.

“Neighbors, you all know what kind of man I am.”

“Sure, I ran a card parlor. Sure, I made a little money. But I never stole from anyone, never robbed anyone.”

Halfway through, he slammed his fist against his own chest.

“Now I'm sick. The doctors say I need surgery, chemo, medication.”

“My daughter-in-law's about to give birth. My grandchild's almost here.”