The Twin in the Shadows

Vincent drove the black sedan like a man with nothing left to lose. The Chicago streetlights bled across the windshield in streaks of yellow and harsh white.

"Daniel Whitmore," Vincent growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "He was my father's right-hand man. He managed the Foundation. When my mother died in the fire, Daniel was the one who pulled my father from the flames."

"Then why would he want your nephew dead?" I asked, clutching the leather armrest.

"Because my mother's trust fund unlocks when the true heir turns twenty-eight," Vincent said. "I am not the true heir. Anthony was born three minutes before me. He was the primary beneficiary. With Anthony dead, the money goes to his bloodline. The baby."

Answer One, Open Two. Daniel wasn't trying to destroy the Moretti family out of hatred. He was stealing a financial empire. But if Daniel was stealing it, who was helping him on the inside?

Vincent pulled the car into the overgrown alley behind the abandoned Moretti Foundation building. The brick structure loomed against the night sky, its windows boarded up like scarred eyes.

"Stay behind me," Vincent ordered, stepping out into the freezing wind.

We slipped through a rusted side door. The air inside smelled of ash and rot. Twenty-seven years ago, this was the building where Eleanor Moretti supposedly died in the fire.

As we crept down the dark hallway, a sound echoed from the basement. A baby crying.

Vincent didn't hesitate. He kicked the basement door open and descended the wooden stairs, his gun raised. I followed, my heart hammering against my ribs.

At the bottom of the stairs, Isabella was tied to a chair beneath a flickering bulb. Her lip was bleeding. But her arms were empty.

"Where is he?" Vincent demanded, rushing to untie her. "Where is the boy?"

Isabella looked up, tears cutting through the dirt on her face. "He took him, Vincent. Daniel took him to the roof."

I looked down at the concrete floor. Lying near the leg of the chair was a heavy, gold pocket watch. The glass face was shattered.

I picked it up. The hands were frozen exactly at 11:42.

Vincent froze when he saw it. "That's my father's watch. He lost it the night of the fire."

"No, Vincent," Isabella choked out, rubbing her bruised wrists. "Daniel didn't save your father from the fire. Daniel started the fire. He killed your mother to take control of the family."

Suddenly, a heavy metal grate slammed shut at the top of the stairs, locking us in the basement.