Chapter 4 - THE HOUSEKEEPER'S PROMISE
“Mrs. Bennett,” Adrian said, raising his hands slowly. His voice was remarkably calm, though I could see the frantic pulse beating at his neck. “Put the gun down. You’ve known me since I was a boy. You made me cookies. You aren't going to shoot me.”
The seventy-nine-year-old woman’s hands shook violently, the heavy barrel of the revolver wavering. “You don't understand, Adrian. Dominic knew you would go soft. He knew if you found the boy, you would leave the syndicate to him. The Moretti family can't be run by a half-blood child from a nobody mother!”
“He’s my son!” Adrian roared, the calm façade shattering. “Where is he? Where did Margaret take him?”
“She didn't take him,” a new voice echoed from the porch.
Vanessa stepped into the cottage. She had kicked off her high heels and was holding a sleek, modern smartphone in her hand. She looked at Mrs. Bennett with cold approval.
“Good job, Martha,” Vanessa said. “Keep the gun on him.”
I stared at Vanessa. “You knew about this? You arranged this tonight?”
“Of course I did,” Vanessa said smoothly, walking into the kitchen. “When you started asking questions about the cottages last month, Claire, I knew it was only a matter of time before you blew the secret. So, I had my men move Margaret and the boy this afternoon. The boiling water on the stove? A nice dramatic touch I added for your benefit.”
Adrian looked at the woman he was supposed to marry. “You kidnapped my son.”
“I relocated a liability,” Vanessa corrected. She looked at the child’s drawing on the fridge and sneered. She reached out and ripped it down, crumpling it in her fist. “Dominic promised me this empire, Adrian. He promised me that if I married you and kept you focused, the syndicate would be mine to co-rule. I am not letting some bastard child take my place.”
“You are a monster,” I said, stepping between Vanessa and Adrian.
Vanessa laughed. “I’m a survivor, Claire. Something you wouldn't understand in your cozy suburban life.”
She turned her phone toward us. On the screen was a live video feed. It showed a small, dark-haired boy sitting in the back of a moving van. He looked terrified, clutching a small stuffed bear. Margaret, the old nurse, sat beside him, weeping silently.
Adrian let out a sound of pure agony. He lunged forward.
BANG.
The gunshot deafened the small cottage. Mrs. Bennett hadn't shot Adrian; she had fired a warning shot into the floorboards, inches from his feet.
“Don't move, Adrian!” Mrs. Bennett cried, her face pale with terror.
Vanessa sighed, pocketing her phone. “Here is the deal, Adrian. Tomorrow morning, you are going to sign the syndicate’s master ledger over to me. You are going to name me as your sole successor in the event of your death or resignation. You will transfer all legitimate assets into my holding company.”
“And if I don't?” Adrian growled.
“If you don't, the van crosses state lines, and you never see your son again,” Vanessa said coldly. “You have until dawn to decide what matters more to you: your father’s empire, or a boy you’ve never even met.”
She turned and walked out of the cottage, the darkness swallowing her red dress.
Mrs. Bennett kept the gun leveled at us, backing slowly toward the door.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” Mrs. Bennett whispered. “I loved your father. I had to protect his wishes.”
She slipped out the door, locking it heavily from the outside.
Adrian fell to his knees in the kitchen, his hands burying into his hair. The most powerful man in the city was completely broken.
I knelt beside him. I didn't say anything. I just wrapped my arms around him, holding him the way I used to when we were children hiding from our father’s terrible temper.
“He’s alive, Claire,” Adrian wept into my shoulder. “My boy is alive.”
“I know,” I whispered, stroking his hair.
“I have to give her the syndicate. I have to give her everything.”
“No, you don't,” I said quietly.
Adrian pulled back, looking at me with bloodshot eyes. “Claire, if I don't sign it over, she’ll kill him.”
I reached into the pocket of my navy dress. I pulled out a heavy, gold pocket watch. It had our father’s initials, D.M., engraved on the front.
“When Dad banished me eight years ago,” I said, looking at the watch, “he didn't just yell at me. He gave me this. He told me that if the day ever came when the family was truly lost, I was to open it.”
I pressed the small latch on the side of the watch.
The gold cover popped open.
But there was no clock face inside. The mechanics had been hollowed out.
Instead, tucked neatly inside the gold casing, was a small, tightly folded piece of paper and a tiny brass key.
May you like
I unfolded the paper. It was a list of three names and a bank account routing number.
And at the bottom, written in our father’s sharp handwriting, was a single sentence: The sins of the father must be paid, but blood always comes first.
