Chapter 5 - BLOODLINES AND LIES
The grand foyer felt like it was plunging into a freezing vacuum. Outside, the choppers whirred, keeping the cartel reinforcements pinned, but inside, the war was entirely personal.
Marcus stared at the portrait. The man in the painting holding young Elena’s hand had striking, familiar features. The sharp jaw. The deep-set eyes.
"It’s my brother," Marcus said, his voice barely a breath. "You told me he died before Elena was born."
Eleanor, trembling violently on the floor where Julian had shoved her, let out a bitter, ugly laugh. "Oh, the great Marcus Conor. So blind. So arrogant. You thought your wife was a saint? You thought she loved you?"
Elena’s head was spinning. The pain in her abdomen flared, bringing her to her knees. A medic from Marcus’s team instantly broke formation, sliding next to her with a trauma kit, checking her vitals.
"Breathe, Elena," the medic urged quietly. "Heart rate is spiking."
Marcus didn't move. He held the canvas as if it were a live grenade. "Explain," he commanded.
Vargas took a step back, realizing the domestic drama unfolding was a distraction he could use, but Marcus’s guards instantly raised their sights to his head.
"Your brother didn't die in a car crash, Marcus," Eleanor spat, pulling herself up. "He was murdered. By my husband. Because your brother was planning to take your syndicate, your wife, and your money, and hand it all to us."
Julian, pinned under the guard’s boot, whimpered. "Mother, shut up! He’s going to kill us!"
"He’s going to kill us anyway!" Eleanor screamed. She pointed a manicured finger at Elena. "Look at her! Look at her eyes! She’s not yours, Marcus. She’s the bastard child of a traitor. I kept the painting to prove it to the cartel. To prove that the Conor bloodline was already polluted."
Marcus slowly turned to look at Elena.
Elena wept openly, the physical pain of her contractions mingling with the absolute devastation of the moment. "I didn't know," she sobbed. "Dad, I swear I didn't know."
For ten agonizing seconds, Marcus just looked at the girl he had raised, protected, and killed for. The girl whose bruises made him tear the city apart tonight.
Marcus slowly rolled up the canvas. He walked over to the grand fireplace, picked up a heavy silver lighter, and set the canvas on fire. He dropped the burning painting onto the marble floor, watching the lies of the past turn to ash.
"A father is the man who bleeds for his child," Marcus said, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakable authority. He walked back to Elena and gently kissed the top of her head. "And you are my daughter. Today, tomorrow, and until my last breath."
Elena broke down into massive, heavy sobs, burying her face against his leg.
Eleanor looked horrified. The revelation was supposed to break Marcus. It was supposed to destroy his love for the girl. Instead, it only solidified it.
"Now," Marcus said, turning his lethal gaze back to Vargas. "Let’s clean up this mess."
Before a single shot could be fired, Vargas reached into his jacket. But he didn't pull a gun. He pulled out a small, child's blue rosary.
"Don't shoot!" Vargas yelled, his tough facade cracking. "Marcus, wait! Look at it!"
May you like
Marcus froze. He recognized the rosary. It belonged to his six-year-old grandson—Elena’s first child from a previous relationship, whom she had left in hiding at a private boarding school.
"We have the boy," Vargas smiled, sweating profusely. "Let me walk out of here, or your grandson dies."
