“Don’t Hand Her To Him,” The Maid Begged — But The Mafia Boss Didn’t Move When the Maid’s Baby Called Him Papa because His Scar Made Her Baby Smile, And The DNA Test Said A Dead Man Had Lied... Then Everyone Saw the Tear Hit His Desk

The storm had fully descended upon the Boston waterfront by midnight.

At Pier 4, inside an abandoned seafood packing warehouse that smelled of brine, rust, and diesel fuel, the rain battered against the corrugated tin roof with the force of a machine gun.

Single halogen lamp hung from a rusted steel beam, casting a harsh, glaring circle of white light onto the damp concrete floor.

In the center of that light sat Dr. Robert Mercer.

He was sixty-two years old, wore a tailored camel-hair coat that was now covered in road grease, and was tied securely to a heavy oak chair with industrial zip-ties. His expensive gold-rimmed glasses were crooked on his nose, and his face was slick with sweat despite the freezing cold draft blowing through the broken pier doors.

Standing outside the circle of light were four men in black coats.

And standing directly in front of the doctor was Dominic Rourke.

Dominic was not wearing a coat. He stood in his black sweater, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets, his dark gray eyes reflecting the harsh glare of the halogen bulb.

"Dominic... please," Dr. Mercer gasped, his voice trembling so violently his teeth clicked together. "I’m a physician! I’ve treated your family for fifteen years! I treated your father’s heart condition! You can’t do this!"

Dominic took a slow step forward.

The sound of his dress shoes against the wet concrete was the only sound in the vast, dark warehouse.

"Fifteen years," Dominic said smoothly. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "Fifteen years my family paid your medical bills, funded your research at Harvard, and protected your private clinic from the state medical board."

He reached out, gently adjusting Dr. Mercer’s crooked glasses with two clean fingers.

"And in return," Dominic whispered, "you took my brother’s living child, handed her to a penniless maid, and placed a dead infant in my brother's grave."

Dr. Mercer’s face went completely white. All the blood seemed to drain out of him at once, leaving his skin looking like wet paper. "I... I don't know what you're talking about—"

CLANG.

Marcus Thorne stepped out of the dark, swinging a heavy steel crowbar into the leg of the oak chair. The chair splintered, tipping the doctor violently to the side, throwing him onto the damp concrete.

Dr. Mercer screamed, thrashing against his bindings. "Okay! Okay! Please! Don't kill me! Please!"

Dominic knelt beside the fallen doctor. He did not grab him. He did not strike him. He simply rested his forearm on his knee, looking down at the terrified man.

"Tell me how it happened, Robert," Dominic said softly. "Every detail. If you leave out a single word, Marcus has a bucket of salt water and a car battery waiting in the truck."

Dr. Mercer sobbed, pressing his cheek against the cold concrete. "It was Lydia! It was all Lydia Vance!"

"Talk," Dominic ordered.

"Lydia came to St. Margaret’s in her seventh month," Mercer wept frantically. "She didn't want the baby! She told me Julian was dead and she wasn't going to raise some mobster's brat in a suburban house! She wanted to take her money and run to Europe!"

"And Clara Hayes?" Dominic asked.

"Clara came into the ER thirty minutes later," Mercer gasped, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "Emergency C-section. The baby... Clara’s baby... had severe pulmonary hypoplasia. The lungs hadn't developed. The child died twenty minutes after delivery. Clara was completely knocked out on general anesthesia..."

Dominic’s jaw tightened. "Go on."

"Lydia saw the opportunity," Mercer confessed, his voice breaking into pitiful squeaks. "She offered me two hundred thousand dollars cash. She said... she said the maid was young, poor, and would never know the difference. We switched the foot-tags in the nursery before Clara woke up. We gave Lydia’s healthy baby to Clara... and registered the deceased baby under Lydia’s name so I could issue the death certificate for you."

Dominic sat back on his heel.

The rain hammered on the roof above, a deafening roar that filled the vast, dark expanse of the pier.

"So Clara Hayes," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sent a shudder through Marcus Thorne, "has been raising my brother’s child... believing she was her own."

"Yes! Yes!" Mercer cried. "Clara is innocent! She knows nothing! She thinks the baby is hers! She spent every penny she had on the kid’s medical bills! I swear to God, Dominic, she didn't know!"

Dominic stood up slowly.

He looked down at the pathetic, weeping physician lying in the dirt at his feet.

"Where is Lydia Vance?" Dominic asked.

"I don't know! I swear I don't know!" Mercer shrieked. "She took her money and left for Miami six months ago! I haven't spoken to her since!"

Dominic turned his back on the doctor. He walked toward the open doors of the pier, looking out at the dark, white-capped waters of Boston Harbor.

"Marcus," Dominic said quiet.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Take Dr. Mercer to the basement of the South Boston warehouse," Dominic commanded flatly. "Keep him alive until I find Lydia Vance. If a single word of this leaves this pier, I will personally feed you to the harbor."

"Understood, Boss."

Dominic stepped out into the freezing rain. He did not feel the cold. He did not feel the water soaking through his sweater.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Clara Hayes kneeling on the velvet carpet of his library, clutching the baby to her chest, screaming through her tears: “She’s mine... she’s mine...”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed a single speed-dial button.

"Mrs. Bell," Dominic said when the call connected.

"Yes, Mr. Rourke?" the housekeeper’s voice came through the speaker, tight with anxiety.

"How is the girl?"

"She has not stopped crying, sir," Mrs. Bell reported quietly. "She is sitting in the nursery with the baby. She refuses to eat. She refuses to let the nurses touch the child."