"...that leaves me with two options - she signs it over willingly, or she goes back to sleep. For good," he finished in a nasty tone. The man stood average height, with slightly better than good looks, blonde and blue eyed, his coloring more insipid than 'golden'. He should have looked sharp in the expensive suit, but the look on his face marred the end result, making him look like a spoiled little boy, dressed up for some special occasion. He turned sharply, a nasty smile curving his well shaped, if slightly thin, lips.

"If she dies in her sleep... in the coma... then it all goes to me. Anything else results in confusion and lawsuits and I WILL NOT HAVE IT. That money is mine." Christian Venice turned again to look out the window of the lushly appointed office. The two men on the other side of the desk; a short, vaguely Hispanic looking weasel of a man, and a huge hulking mountain that seemed to be slightly lost; stood listening to Christian's every word. Or at least the Weasel was.

He spoke up, "Seems like an easy fix, boss. The doc sent up a syringe," he gestured, and the Man Mountain lifted the case in his hand. His size dwarfed it, making it seem tiny. Weasel continued, "Give it to her anytime ya like, Boss."

Christian turned back, sneering, "Why do you think I asked for it? She's back at the compound - find her, stick her, and get out. I'll handle the rest." He turned away, and the men knew they'd been dismissed. They turned and moved out of the office quickly.

Outside another door, a man in a butler's uniform looked slightly sick, and closed the door he'd barely cracked a moment earlier. Enough to hear the conversation. He was an old man, he'd almost retired, rather than work for Young Mr. Venice. The young man had found it novel to have his father's old servant working for him, and found the slight panache of having an actual valet a fun novelty among his social crowd. The old man took a deep, steadying breath, and turned around, heading back the way he'd come. He st