My father sold me to the Mafia King novel Chapter 358

Chapter 358: 358/The Stolen Heir

Chapter 358

**Thomas’s Point of View**

The heavy door of the luxury hotel suite clicked shut behind me, a soft mechanical snap that severed my connection to the outside world. The entire room fell into a profound stillness, dominated by the artificial warmth of the space.

At that exact second, my trembling fingers—a mere performance—stopped gripping the rubber control button on the armrest of the wheelchair. The muscles in my legs suddenly unlocked. I pushed my torso upward with effortless agility and stood upright on my feet with absolute stability, leaving that wretched chair with its leather wheels behind me like a shackle I had finally cast off.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the fresh air as I walked with wide, free, and natural strides across the expansive carpet with its intricate, overlapping patterns. Damn this torture. Simulating helplessness and playing the part of a paralyzed man unable to move for years right in front of those closest to you consumes your nervous energy and exhausts your body’s cells intolerably. It forced me to live behind a suffocating mask.

I walked toward the spacious dark brown leather sofa and sat down with complete ease, crossing one leg over the other with absolute dominance, casting a discerning gaze at the mirage around the room. My fingers extended steadily to pull a silver cigarette case from my inner pocket. I lit one with a swift flick of fire, allowing the hot, acrid smoke to slowly invade my lungs and rearrange the chaos of my thoughts.

As the plumes of smoke drifted up into the gray room, memories of that ill-fated day floated to the surface of my mind in meticulous detail the day the earth suddenly split open to reveal Morgan aiming the cold, black barrel of his weapon at my back with blind hatred.

That treacherous bullet tore through my body and robbed me of my ability to walk, leaving me confined to a helpless chair for two whole years of sheer oppression and resentment.

But I was not a man to surrender so easily to the verdicts of doctors or the strikes of enemies. I used to attend brutal physical therapy sessions in absolute secrecy, in the dead of night, deep within the basement of my mansion.

I did this in defiance of the medical reports and the doctors’ insistence that my condition was utterly hopeless and that I would never stand on my feet again in this life.

Until that momentous day arrived when the muscles in my legs twitched violently, and I fully regained my ability to walk without anyone’s assistance.

Despite the miracle of my recovery, the game demanded extreme caution. Morgan was a cunning fox of an enemy who could not be underestimated under any circumstances.

The sole, fundamental reason he had abandoned his bloody hostility and burning malice against me was seeing me helpless, broken, and bound to the wheels of that iron chair.

Risking making the news of my recovery public and visible would have inevitably and undoubtedly driven him to attempt to assassinate and eliminate me again with a more precise bullet. At that time, I had two young sons who understood nothing of the filth and conspiracies of this blood-soaked world.

I desperately needed to stay alive by their side at any cost, to teach Robert the inner workings of the empire—how to manage the trade and hold the reins of influence with unyielding power.

With the passage of time and years, it became terrifyingly clear to me that this faked helplessness served me in a lethal way that surpassed all my expectations.

Even my son, Harold, drew close to me, showering me with exaggerated affection and forgiving me for all my past sins because he saw me in this broken, humiliating state. Because of this, I made my decision that continuing this perfected masquerade was the winning card and the true shield protecting my entire family from ruin.

However, things and plans did not remain in the stable order I had arranged. My young grandson, Adam, desperately needs a matching liver lobe as quickly as possible before the cells of his weak body deteriorate and his vital functions collapse. Right now, in front of everyone, he appears to be just an ordinary child, running around with innocence, normal features, and a warm smile. But the secret medical reports from the hospital were clear and stark: only a few months separate him from a complete and dangerous deterioration.

I had no path or choice left but to turn to Julie Julie, who now stands in my way with a flat refusal and a hysterical stubbornness that threatens to ruin everything.

I took another deep drag from my cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly. My memory flashed back violently exactly three years ago to this day. Never in this life or under this sky did I expect to have a grandson. I remembered with precision that morning when my phone buzzed on my desk with an unexpected call from the club supervisor, Olivia.

I pressed the answer button with decisive fingers and spoke in a dry, clipped tone:

"Yes, Olivia. What is it? Why are you calling at this hour?"

Her voice came through the receiver trembling, fractured, and utterly frantic:

"Mr. Thomas... please listen to me calmly. I need to tell you something absolutely vital, urgent, and highly important that cannot tolerate any delay."

I knit my brows in suspicion and doubt, straightening my posture in my chair:

"What the hell is this momentous thing?"

Her words crashed down upon my head like a lightning bolt that shook the very foundations of the office:

"Julie... that girl who was in a relationship with Master Robert, the one who fled the club previously and vanished from sight."

I gripped the phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white:

"Yes... what about that girl? Have you found her?"

She spoke with panting, rapid breaths:

"She is currently inside the hospital in acute labor. She is giving birth at this very moment."

My pupils dilated in total shock, and I barked sharply in a booming voice:

"What the hell do you mean by that?!"

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