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Damages sought: $9.6 million
My eyes skim faster now, heart pounding.
The plaintiffs allege that in 2003, residents of Eastbrook Towers were subjected to persistent mold, broken elevators, winter utility shutoffs, and retaliatory eviction notices following complaints. Within nine months of mass displacement, the property was fully vacated, gutted, and sold to a Volcor affiliate for luxury redevelopment.
The document is full of scanned images: apartment walls covered in black mold. Photos of broken heaters and children wrapped in blankets. A timeline showing how the LLC that bought the building shares a parent company with Volcor Holdings.
The worst part?
All of it happened under my father’s name.
He’d filed Eastbrook through a separate arm—buried under layers of shell companies. Of course. That was his signature move. Do the dirty work under one name, hide the profits under another, and let someone else take the heat.
And now that someone is me.
The legal language shifts as I scroll, naming me as current trustee of the Volcor Estate—which, in legalese, translates to target in all caps.
I slam the laptop shut and press my palms to my face.
I didn’t know.
I had no say. I wasn’t even of legal age to rent a damn apartment, let alone evict people from one.
It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts, my mind racing with the implications of what I’ve just read. The weight of the accusations against my father, against me, threatens to suffocate me.
How could my father have been involved in something so malicious, so heartless?
How could he have kept this hidden for so long? How could he have involved me in such a despicable scheme without my knowledge or consent?
So many fucking questions and only one man who can answer them. I hear shuffling in the other room and remember that Ivy is still in there. The last thing I want is for her to hear my conversation with my father. She’s already questioning my character, and to be honest, I could really see myself with a woman like Ivy, so I decide to take the call in a conference room offered in the resort lobby.
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself before heading into the conference room to make the call. The situation feels heavier with each step, each passing moment bringing me closer to confronting my father about his actions. As I enter the room and close the door behind me, I dial his number, my hand shaking slightly as anger envelops me.
The phone rings once, twice, before he finally answers.
“Hello, son,” he greets me, calm and composed—like he was expecting the call. But I can hear the tension beneath it. A crack in the polished armor.
“Dad,” I say, voice tight. “We need to talk.”
A pause. Heavy.
Then: “I know about the lawsuit,” he says, cutting me off. “I know you’ve seen the documents. The accusations. The truth.”
My grip tightens. “The truth?” I scoff. “So all of this is true? What kind of sick game were you playing, Dad? Evicting innocent people, tearing families apart—for what? Profit? There were kids, Dad. These were families. How could you do something like that?”
I barely breathe before the next words leave my mouth. “What if it had been Laura, huh? You’d be okay with someone doing this kind of bullshit to your only granddaughter?”
“Leave Laura out of this,” he growls. “You know I’d do anything to protect her. Anything for this family.”
I laugh. Cold. Hollow. “Yeah? What about those other families? Those women? Their children? You think protecting us gives you the right to destroy them?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Dad, I know you’ve always said there’s an ugly side to business, but this is so fucked up, man. This is just wrong. A family was living out of their car after you evicted them, and a kid almost died. You evicted them during a storm, and he had to get an amputation. He was an aspiring football player, Dad; you ruined that kid’s life. That shit doesn’t mean anything to you?”
I take a deep breath, steadying my voice. “And you involved me in this. You made me the trustee knowing full well what you buried under it. You handed me your sins and smiled like you were passing me a torch. How could you do that to your own son?”
A pause. Long and lead-heavy.