Chapter 4 - THE TRUTH IN THE BLOOD
A gunshot deafened the concrete room.
Martin’s body jerked violently as Marcus’s bullet caught him in the shoulder. The pistol flew from Martin’s grip, skittering across the floor. He collapsed onto the concrete, clutching his bleeding arm and groaning in agony.
I didn't look at him. I sprinted across the room, falling to my knees beside the metal chair.
My hands shook uncontrollably as I untied the heavy ropes binding Emily’s wrists. The moment she was free, she threw her arms around my neck.
“Dad,” she sobbed, burying her face in my shoulder. “You found me. You actually found me.”
“I’ve got you, baby girl,” I cried, holding her so tightly I thought I might break her. I rocked her back and forth, the twenty-four years of agony washing away in the flood of my tears. “I’m so sorry it took so long. I’m so sorry.”
We held each other for what felt like an eternity, the tactical team securing the perimeter around us. Marcus dragged a bleeding Martin to his feet and zip-tied his hands behind his back.
I pulled back and looked at Emily's bruised face. She was thirty-two years old, but in that moment, all I saw was the little girl who used to fall asleep on my chest while I read her bedtime stories.
“Lucy is safe,” I promised her. “She’s at the Four Seasons with my men. She’s eating a warm meal right now.”
Emily let out a profound breath of relief, closing her eyes. “Thank God.”
I helped her stand. I took off my heavy cashmere overcoat and wrapped it around her shivering shoulders. Then, I turned my attention to Martin.
I walked over to the man who had sat at my dinner table, who had drunk my scotch, who had looked me in the eyes and lied about my daughter’s death for two decades.
“Where is Victoria?” I demanded, my voice echoing coldly in the vast room.
Martin coughed, spitting a mixture of blood and saliva onto the concrete. He looked up at me with a twisted, desperate smirk.
“She’s at the gala, Richard,” he wheezed. “Playing the perfect, charitable billionaire’s wife. But she’s not planning on staying there long. Her private jet is fueled and waiting at Dallas Executive. She knows the walls are closing in.”
“She won't get far,” Marcus growled, pressing the barrel of his rifle into Martin’s spine.
“You don't understand,” Emily said suddenly, stepping up beside me. Her voice was surprisingly strong. “Victoria didn't just want me gone so she could inherit the money. Dad… I wasn't the only one in the car that day.”
I froze, turning to look at her. “What are you talking about? You were the only passenger. The police found your backpack.”
Emily reached into the pocket of her torn jeans. She pulled out a small, faded child’s drawing. It was folded into perfect squares. She handed it to me.
I unfolded the fragile paper. It was a drawing done in crayon. It showed a tall man, a little girl with a red bow, and a baby wrapped in a blue blanket.
“Who is the baby?” I asked, my heart hammering.
“My little brother,” Emily whispered.
The room spun violently. “Your… brother?”
Emily nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “My mother didn't die of a sudden illness, Dad. You were out of the country on business. Mom went into premature labor. Victoria was the one who drove her to the hospital. But she didn't take her to a hospital. She took her to a private clinic.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Victoria told me your mother died of a hemorrhage before she could get help. She said the baby didn't survive.”
“The baby survived,” Emily cried. “He was perfect. Mom gave him to me to hold before she bled to death in that clinic. Victoria told the doctors to let her die. I heard her, Dad. I was hiding in the hallway.”
I gripped the paper so hard my knuckles turned white.
“Victoria took the baby,” Emily continued, her voice trembling with trauma. “A year later, when I finally tried to tell you what I saw, Victoria realized I was a threat. She hired Martin to stage my accident. But she couldn't kill the baby. She needed the baby.”
“Why?” I asked, entirely horrified.
Martin laughed from his knees. It was an ugly, wet sound. “Because of your father’s ironclad trust, Richard. The Anderson fortune can only be inherited by a male heir. If you died, the board would take control unless there was a son. Victoria didn't want to share the empire. So she kept your son hidden, raising him in secret, waiting for the day she finally decided to poison your scotch.”
My son.
May you like
I had a son.
“Where is he?” I roared, grabbing Martin by the collar of his jacket and slamming him against the concrete pillar. “Where is my boy?!”
