Chapter 2 - THE GHOST IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
The silence in my office was deafening, the kind of heavy, suffocating quiet that precedes a bloody war. I stared at the glossy photograph in my hand, the edges crinkling under the pressure of my grip. Marcus Vance. The man standing next to Hannah in the grainy image was Marcus Vance, my former underboss and the closest thing I had ever had to a brother. I had carried his casket. I had stood in the freezing rain and watched him lowered into the earth eight years ago after a rival family supposedly blew his car to pieces.
My blood turned to ice. My mind raced through a thousand different scenarios, each more dangerous than the last. If Marcus was alive, it meant the last decade of my life was built on a lie. It meant the brutal wars I fought to avenge him were orchestrated by the very man I was mourning. And worse—it meant that little Sophie bumping into me at the grocery store was a calculated move on a chessboard I didn't even know I was playing on.
I hit the intercom button on my mahogany desk. "Silas. Get in here."
My head of security stepped into the room seconds later, his face an impassive mask. He took one look at my expression and immediately placed his hand over his holstered weapon. "Boss?"
"Lock down the estate," I ordered, my voice dangerously low. "No one gets in, no one leaves. Triple the guard on the medical wing where Hannah is recovering. And bring the girl, Sophie, to the safe room next to my quarters. I want the twins with her."
Silas nodded, his eyes darting to the photograph on my desk but knowing better than to ask. "It's done. Is there a threat inside the perimeter?"
"The threat," I whispered, tossing the photo toward him, "has been inside my head for eight years. Find out everything you can about Hannah’s life before she moved to Milwaukee. Leave no stone unturned. If she so much as bought a cup of coffee three years ago, I want to know who poured it."
As Silas hurried out to execute my orders, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sprawling grounds of my estate. Snow was beginning to fall, dusting the manicured lawns in a pristine white that hid the mud and rot beneath. That was exactly what Hannah was—a beautiful, fragile cover for something rotting and dangerous. I had let my guard down. I had looked at a six-year-old girl holding four dollars and sixty-three cents and felt something human stir inside my dead chest.
I stalked down the hallway toward the medical wing. The air smelled of antiseptic and clean linen. Hannah was lying in the hospital bed, an IV dripping fluids into her pale arm. Her fever had broken, and she was awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. When I stepped into the room, she flinched, pulling the sheets up to her chin.
"Where are my children?" she rasped, her eyes wide with terror.
"Safe," I replied coldly, pulling up a chair and sitting beside her bed. I didn't offer comfort. I didn't play the benevolent savior anymore. I pulled the photograph from my inside jacket pocket and dropped it on her lap. "But the real question is, how long do you think they'll stay safe with him in the picture?"
Hannah looked down at the photo. The color drained completely from her face. She began to tremble, a violent, uncontrollable shaking that rattled the bedframe. She clamped a hand over her mouth, a stifled sob tearing from her throat.
May you like
"Who sent that?" she whispered, terrified.
"A ghost," I said, leaning closer, invading her space until she had no choice but to look into my eyes. "Now, you are going to tell me exactly how you know Marcus Vance, why he sent his illegitimate family to my doorstep, and what the hell he wants. If you lie to me, Hannah, I won't just throw you out into the snow. I'll make sure Marcus watches you burn."
