Chapter 3 - Blood Doesn't Lie
The penthouse at the top of the Moretti Tower had never felt so vast, so silent, or so completely like a tomb.
Vincent stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glowing grid of Chicago, an untouched glass of scotch in his right hand. The city hummed with life, but inside his chest, there was only a hurricane of guilt, fury, and bewildered grief.
Behind him, Sophia was pacing the length of the Italian marble floor, her high heels clicking incessantly.
"It's a trap, Vincent! Can't you see that?" Sophia's voice bordered on hysterical. "She disappeared for three years! Do you know how hard it is to fake your death after an aviation disaster? She had help! She planned this! She probably orchestrated the whole thing just to make you suffer!"
Vincent didn't turn around. "Shut up, Sophia."
"No, I will not shut up!" she shrieked, marching up behind him. "You're looking at her like she's a saint who rose from the grave! She's a monster! She kept your child from you! If that boy even *is* your child! How do you know she didn't sleep with Julian Vance? How do you know—"
Vincent spun around with such sudden violence that Sophia stumbled backward into a leather armchair. The glass of scotch slammed onto the side table, amber liquid sloshing over the polished wood.
"Say one more word about my son," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, "and you will leave this building in whatever you're wearing and never set foot in my presence again."
Sophia paled, her lips trembling. "Vincent... I’ve been by your side for three years. I held you when you cried. I pulled you out of those bars. I rebuilt your life with you!"
"You didn't rebuild a damn thing," Vincent snapped, his eyes flashing with lethal venom. "You moved into her closet. You wore her jewelry. You smiled while society called you my future wife, knowing full well why she was dead in the first place."
"I was scared!" Sophia sobbed, tears finally spilling over her mascara. "On that plane, I was terrified! You chose to help me! I didn't hold a gun to your head!"
"Get out," Vincent said.
"Vincent, please—"
"I said get out!" he bellowed, the sound reverberating off the steel beams of the penthouse. "Get out of my home. Now."
Sophia scrambled to her feet, gathering her fur wrap with shaking hands. She glared at him through smudged eyeliner, bitter malice warping her features. "You think she's going to take you back? She hates you, Vincent. She looks at you like you're dirt beneath her shoes. You lost her the second you took my hand on that runway!"
She slammed the double doors behind her.
Vincent stood alone in the dark room, breathing heavily. Her words, poison though they were, hit the dead center of the target.
*She looks at you like you're dirt.*
A knock sounded at the elevator foyer. A man in a dark trench coat stepped into the penthouse: Marcus Kane, Vincent’s head of private intelligence and former military contractor.
"Did you find them?" Vincent demanded immediately, striding toward Marcus.
Marcus handed him a thick manila folder. "It wasn't easy. She’s heavily insulated. Vance Global has military-grade counter-surveillance around her, but we managed to track their motorcade. She’s staying at the Vance Estate in Lake Forest."
Vincent opened the folder. The first picture was a high-resolution photograph taken from a telephoto lens three hours ago.
It was Anna, sitting on the veranda of a lakeside estate, wrapped in a cream cashmere sweater. On her lap sat Leo, his little hands cupping a mug of hot cocoa while she read him a picture book. Her expression in the photograph was so full of unadulterated, fierce love that it knocked the breath out of Vincent’s chest.
"How did she survive, Marcus?" Vincent whispered, his fingers trembling over the photograph. "The fuel tanks blew thirty seconds after I got Sophia to the perimeter. The entire fuselage was melted."
Marcus cleared his throat, his expression grim. "The Aspen fire department’s final report was flawed. The rear emergency exit wasn't blocked as initially reported. A junior flight attendant, Elena Ramos, managed to deploy the rear tail-cone slide just as the port wing ignited. Elena took Anna down that slide."
"Elena?" Vincent’s head snapped up. "Elena was listed as a fatality!"
"Elena was treated for third-degree burns at an unregistered private clinic outside Denver," Marcus said quietly. "All expenses paid by an anonymous offshore trust registered to Julian Vance. Elena survived, boss. And so did Anna."
"And the medical examiner? The DNA reports?" Vincent’s voice cracked. "I held those documents, Marcus! I authorized the death certificates!"
"The Aspen county coroner resigned six months after the incident and moved to the Cayman Islands," Marcus revealed, handing him another sheet of paper. "Someone paid two million dollars to forge dental records matching Anna’s dental charts using Jane Doe remains from a local mortuary fire."
Vincent stared at the paper, the world spinning. "Julian Vance did this?"
"No," Marcus replied carefully. "Julian funded the logistics later. But the initial payment to the coroner came from an account registered right here in Chicago."
Vincent frowned, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Who?"
May you like
Marcus looked down, hesitating for the first time in ten years of working for him. "The transaction originated from an account belonging to Carter Enterprises. Sophia Carter’s father's firm."
***
