Chapter 4 - The Principal's Call
On Monday morning, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a biting October chill that swept across the concrete playground of St. Augustine's Preparatory Academy.
Principal Margaret Holloway stood by her office window, watching the luxury sedans drop off students in their ironed uniforms. She was sipping her morning coffee when her desk phone rang.
She picked it up immediately. "Principal Holloway's office."
"Mrs. Holloway," a smooth, gravelly voice answered. "This is Victor Davis."
Margaret nearly dropped her ceramic mug. In six years, Victor Davis had never once returned a phone call, attended a parent-teacher conference, or answered an official letter. All matters regarding Matthew were handled by his private security team or his high-priced corporate lawyers.
"Mr. Davis," Margaret said, quickly recovering her composure. "Thank you for returning my call. I'm calling regarding the incidents with Matthew last week—"
"I know about the incidents," Victor interrupted flatly. "I received your messages. I want to meet with you today. At eleven o'clock."
"Of course," Margaret said, quickly pulling up her schedule. "Eleven o'clock works well. We can discuss Matthew's behavioral adjustments and his interactions with the other children."
"Good," Victor said, and hung up without another word.
At precisely 10:59 a.m., two black Cadillac Escalades pulled into the circular driveway of St. Augustine's. Four men in dark suits stepped out, securing the perimeter of the administrative wing before opening the rear door for Victor Davis.
When Victor walked into Margaret's office, the air in the room instantly grew heavy. He didn't sit down in the leather chair she offered; instead, he walked over to the framed photographs on her wall, examining them with cold indifference.
"Mr. Davis," Margaret began, standing behind her desk. "As I mentioned in my voicemails, we are facing a critical situation. Three families have withdrawn their children from our first-grade class following altercations with Matthew. On Thursday, Matthew threw his textbook at another student during reading hour."
Victor turned around, his hands folded behind his back. "Why did he throw the book?"
Margaret blinked, surprised by the question. "Well... the teacher reported that the other boy, Oliver Wellington, tried to take Matthew's colored pencils. Matthew lashed out violently instead of using his words."
"And what did the teacher do when Wellington tried to steal from my son?" Victor asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.
"Mr. Davis, we do not tolerate stealing, but Matthew's reaction was entirely disproportionate—"
"My son is six years old," Victor cut in, stepping toward her desk. "His mother died two years ago. He is surrounded by men who speak in whispers and carry weapons. He comes to this school to be normal, and you allow other spoiled children to provoke him, then blame him when he defends himself."
Margaret felt a cold sweat prickle her neck, but she stood her ground. "Mr. Davis, I sympathize deeply with Matthew's loss. But the simple truth is that Matthew is deeply unhappy here. He is withdrawn, angry, and isolated. He does not connect with his teachers, he does not connect with his peers, and he refuses to engage in any activity that requires trust."
Victor remained silent for a long moment, staring out the window at the playground below, where a dozen children were running around in the autumn sun. In the far corner of the yard, sitting alone on a cold concrete bench with his arms crossed, was Matthew. None of the other children went near him.
"He doesn't trust anyone," Victor said quietly, a rare note of vulnerability creeping into his harsh voice. "Because everyone in his life either wants something from me, or is afraid of me."
Margaret looked at the mafia boss, realizing for the first time that beneath the terrifying reputation and the vast wealth, Victor Davis was a desperate father who had no idea how to save his son.
"He needs someone who isn't afraid of you, Mr. Davis," Margaret said gently. "He needs someone who sees him as a child, not as a Davis."
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Victor's eyes narrowed as a sudden memory flashed through his mind—a young waitress in a stained apron, standing up to his bodyguards, smiling at his son, and handing him a slice of chocolate cake on a rainy night.
"I know someone," Victor murmured softly.
