GORDON Farnsworth had more money than God. He had connections beyond anyone’s imagining. He’d lived his life on the fringe, steeped in shadows, so immersed in gray that he doubted he had any semblance of a soul remaining.
He had power, wealth and information at his disposal. And none of it meant a damn thing because his daughter was dying and he was powerless to prevent it.
She’d been seen by the top physicians in the world, had the best treatment money could buy, and he’d been told the same thing by every one of them.
There was nothing further to be done. His daughter couldn’t be saved. The best he could do was make her comfortable for the remainder of her time.
;s He wouldn’t accept that there was nothing he could do. He’d prevented wars and instigated them. He wielded influence with dozens of world leaders. He could make or ruin an entire country on a whim. And he couldn’t save his daughter?
He paced the confines of the dark library where he often brooded with a glass of Macallen whiskey he’d paid over one hundred thousand dollars for. The fire in the hearth had died, leaving only a few glowing embers.
His phone rang and he yanked it to his ear, barking the order before the other party had a chance to say anything.
“Is she legitimate?”
“Indeed it appears she is.”
Farnsworth’s shoulders sagged and he sank onto the couch, perched on the edge, his impatience snarling and nipping at him.
“She’s been able to heal all manner of illnesses and injuries, but it’s at great cost to herself. She’s been pushed beyond her limits but she’s been successful in all cases that have been presented.”
“I don’t give a damn what it does to her,” Farnsworth growled. “Get her here.
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