New Year, 2024.
He stares blankly at Melissa's text-message as it flashes across his phone screen.
"Are you in Launceston?"
No, because he doesn't understand this business of toasting champagne with one's enemies, in a place teeming with them that his family had done well to abandon. Of course, toasting enemies is an occasional inevitability in London; at events they all have vested interest in attending, or else cede the limelight to an undesirable other.
But Launceston is not London. Why the Rutherfords would ever need chase French cul or any other into a foreign city, he cannot for the life of him understand.
It's sloppy, unnecessary. And too much potential for ill-advised liaisons.
The surgeon releases a sigh, leaning back in his chair. Maybe his family is right, and he is softhearted after all — unable to fathom the thought of shooting the same people you'd willingly toasted mere weeks ago.
Or — perhaps he's every bit as calculating as the eldest son of a mobster, who, in another lifetime, might've been forced to lead his father's people. Calculating enough to know that mingling in such ways would only make his own soldiers less willing to pull the trigger when asked of them. Less loyal.
He doesn't understand it, but he's glad that in this lifetime, it's not his conundrum to resolve. Setting aside his cellphone, Gideon turns his attention back to his work. He needs to reserve every bit of calculation for a problem of his own, anyhow. A priority.
He's not exactly sure how his father caught wind of his intentions – Was it the frequent drop-ins to his lawyer's office in recent weeks? The indefatigable rumour mill that was London's press?... Or had his father specifically taxed some sorry pigeon with the job of gathering, every so often, intel on his wayward son? – but it's become abundantly clear that Andrew knows. Clear, by the gift that had come on Christmas Day, inside a card neatly scrawled in his father's own penmanship.
Gideon,
A man may have the world, but if his child wants no part in it, what good does it do either of them? So saying, I trust even you won't turn your nose up at this humble offering... For my grandson's sake.
Happy Christmas.
— A.R.
Along with the card and an extravagantly-summed cheque, was a referral appointment to the exclusive services of a custody lawyer. Some internet hunting later had revealed the lawyer had made his name overseas and had now returned to London.
Though he'd kept the card, he'd had too much pride to take the money. Blood money. Not that Gideon didn't see the appeal; what was pocket money to Andrew Rutherford was a significant cut of his own annual paycheck, even as a neurosurgeon splitting his time between both public and private sectors in one of the most prestigious cities in the world. But he'd been stubborn since the day he'd earned his first payslip, and the way things were looking, he'd be stubborn until his last. So he'd sent the cheque back with a brief but polite Christmas note in return.
He may have been too proud to take the money, but that doesn't mean he's foolish enough to ignore the legal recommendation of a mobster who'd notoriously spent the last four decades of his life dodging the law and finagling his way out of the courtroom. Whatever else may be said of him, Andrew Rutherford knows how to win a case – or – the right people to employ to win it for him.
And even if the lead proves to be a dead end, had not the last year given him repeated, painful reminder that he needs to refocus his attention on his own life? Maybe Nora's right, and he's spent too long shooting himself in the foot by fighting other people's battles or martyring himself for the wrong causes. Maybe Yvonne is also right, and he needs to quit falling on his sword in defense of everyone around him. Maybe he needs to keep the secret he'd shared with Leyla on his birthday, too.
And maybe, despite all that and every good intention along the way — the lead will fail.
Maybe it won't make an ounce of a difference in the end. He's squared up against his ex-wife in court once before already and had won nothing for his efforts but public humiliation. A second attempt over the years had been thwarted before the judge had even riffled through his painstakingly collected pile of evidence.
What good will a third trial do?...
But for all the cynicism in his heart, Gideon knows he owes Felix this much. Owes him a hundred attempts to pull him out from under the influence of a selfish, fame-spoilt, cocaine-fueled mother; who'd struggle to choose between their son and her next hit. At least, until such a time as his beloved, now-six-year-old boy comes of an age when he can choose such parental influences for himself.
Gideon glances at the clock. In half an hour, he's meant to meet his girlfriend to watch fireworks on a rooftop and ring in the New Year. Enough time to finish this email, the one addressed to the so-called 'Mr. Dalton, Q.C.' with regard to his plight. Besides, the Rutherford doesn't need any more time to think of his resolutions before 2023 fades into the annals of the past. He's made his one – and only one – resolution already.
... It's time to get his son back.
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