The next night, on the
top floor of the Truong Sinh Bio-Pharmaceutical Group’s headquarters, Do Quang
Vu stood before his father’s desk.
The news segment about the
Lam family’s accident had just ended; the screen cut to an ad for some new
medication, until Do Vinh Khang picked up the remote and switched it off.
“The accident and the lab
fire, you arranged them. Didn’t you?”
Quang Vu bowed his head,
his hands falling to his sides, his expression unruffled.
“The police already reached
their conclusion. The car lost its brakes in the rain, and the lab had an
electrical fault. If an outsider heard you ask a question like that, they’d get
the wrong idea.”
Do Vinh Khang tapped a
finger lightly against the arm of his chair.
“And Vu Minh Quan?”
“He’s already silenced Mai
Ngoc and handled the people inside Vinh An. As for the rest, he says he’ll take
care of it himself.”
Do Vinh Khang studied his
son for a moment, then let out a laugh.
“You think I’m scolding
you?”
Quang Vu looked up.
“Lam Gia Huy and his wife
are dead. The D-17 files are gone. From tomorrow on, no one left at Vinh An has
the standing to stop the program from moving forward. This result works in
Truong Sinh’s favor. I won’t pretend otherwise.”
“Then the D-17 program…
what happens to it?”
“From next month, you’ll
run it directly.”
Quang Vu’s eyes lit up, and
he immediately dropped his gaze to hide it. But Do Vinh Khang had already
caught it. His voice went cold.
“Don’t celebrate too soon.
A job that still leaves a survivor behind can’t be called clean.”
“The boy’s blind. He’s only
thirteen, and the doctors have already written off his story about the red
raincoat as a hallucination.”
“Who gets the Vinh An
shares?”
“Per the will, the shares
belonging to Lam Gia Huy and his wife go into a trust for the benefit of Lam
Khai Minh. He comes of age at eighteen, but a special clause only transfers the
voting rights and the power to dispose of the shares to him on his twentieth
birthday. Until then, Mai Ngoc acts as the managing representative, though she
can’t sell, pledge, or alter control of the hospital without the
countersignature of the trust’s lawyer.”
“And once he turns twenty?”
“The voting rights and the
disposal rights pass straight to him.”
Do Vinh Khang rose and
turned his back on his son, gazing down at the city of Dong Cang blazing
beneath its layers of high-rise glass.
That city had its
hospitals, its banks, its hotels, and its towers bearing the names of great
families, a place where a single signature could rescue a company or bury a
human life without leaving so much as a fingerprint.
“A blind man can still
cling to life a long time.”
“If need be, I’ll deal with
it.”
“Good. Don’t let a blind
boy grow up and wreck things for Truong Sinh.”
“Understood.”
Quang Vu bowed and turned
to leave, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a faint smile.
Six years passed. The
warning spoken in that high room never once faded, and Lam Khai Minh, the boy
who had lain motionless in the dark, had become someone the entire Lam villa
now watched with careful, measured steps.
That morning, the city
radio broadcast murmured through the living room.
The announcer ran through a
brawl between a group of young men in luxury cars and a delivery rider; a bank
director arrested for losing ten billion đồng of company funds; then a man who,
after losing his job, had killed his two small children before leaping from a
building. Each tragedy lasted only a few dozen seconds, just long enough for a
listener to frown before turning back to a breakfast going cold on the table.
Khai Minh sat by the
window, his face turned toward the screen though his eyes could no longer see
it.
He caught every faint
crackle in the speaker, every breath the announcer drew between headlines, even
the sound of the housekeeper setting down the tray and pulling her hands back
fast, afraid of making a noise.
“Young master, it’s time
for breakfast.”
“I’m not eating.”
“You didn’t eat last night
either. The doctor warned that your stomach can’t take being starved like
this.”
“I said I’m not eating.”
The housekeeper fell quiet.
Her nail scraped unconsciously against the tray, the smallest sound, but Khai
Minh heard it all the same.
He knew she was worried
that if he kept skipping meals, she’d be the one blamed. And he knew, too, that
somewhere in her head she was probably running through the same words the staff
always whispered to one another: the young master Lam is blind, temperamental,
quick to throw people out, and trusts no one.
Khai Minh didn’t need eyes
to understand what others thought of him.
Over these six years, he’d
heard enough, the pity in the hospital, the relatives’ quiet negotiations over
his inheritance, the servants murmuring about selling things from the
storeroom, telling each other a blind man couldn’t tell the real from the fake.
At first, his sharpened
hearing had been a form of torture; there was nowhere quiet enough to hide from
other people’s words. Later, it became the weapon that kept him alive in a
house where everyone was waiting for him to slip.
He reached out and touched
the watch resting beside his chair.
The leather strap had worn
old, the silver rim scratched in places, but in six years he hadn’t replaced a
single part. He’d had it examined again and again and never found the thing his
mother had hinted at, yet on every sleepless night, his fingers still traced
each scratch on its face, as though brushing against the last trace of her.
Two months remained until
he turned twenty.
Khai Minh had come of age,
but by the terms his parents had set in the trust, only on that day would the
voting rights and the disposal rights over the Vinh An shares finally pass from
his guardian’s hands to his own. For now, he held only his seat on the board
and a special right of oversight over the trust’s assets; every senior
personnel decision still had to go through the executive committee.
The closer that transfer
date came, the stranger the people in the villa behaved. New bodyguards were
reassigned in. Files sent over from the hospital regularly turned up missing
pages. And the servants around him constantly probed at his schedule, all under
the pretext of caring about his health.
That week, Khai Minh
dismissed four members of the household staff.
The first had pocketed
money meant for groceries and reported the prices at nearly double. The second
had colluded with a driver to sell parts out of the storeroom. The last two had
secretly photographed documents on his desk and sent them to an unlisted
number.
Not one admitted fault.
They all wept, begged forgiveness, and said they were only following someone
else’s orders.
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