Chapter 6 - The Hunt in Miami
The tropical humidity of Miami’s South Beach hit Dominic Rourke like a damp cloth the moment he stepped off his private Gulfstream at Opa-Locka Executive Airport.
It was seventy-two hours after he had left Boston.
Dominic sat in the rear seat of a black Cadillac Escalade as it cruised down Ocean Drive, the neon pink and turquoise lights of the art deco hotels reflecting off the dark, bulletproof glass of the SUV.
Beside him sat Marcus Thorne, reviewing a digital dossier on a leather-bound tablet.
"Lydia Vance has been living under the alias 'Victoria Sterling' for the past five months," Marcus reported, his voice crisp and professional over the low hum of the air conditioning. "She purchased a six-million-dollar penthouse condo at the Continuum towers on South Pointe Drive. She spends her afternoons at the private beach club and her evenings at L’Étoile—an exclusive nightclub owned by the Santos cartel."
Dominic did not look at the tablet. He was looking at a photograph of his brother Julian that he held in his hand.
"Does she know we’re in Florida?" Dominic asked flatly.
"No, Boss," Marcus replied. "We tapped her lawyer’s phone in Boston yesterday morning. She believes Dr. Mercer is still sitting in his clinic in Southie. She thinks she’s completely clear."
Dominic folded the photograph and placed it inside his suit pocket. "Tell the local team to shut down the street outside L’Étoile at midnight. I want no local police interference."
"Already taken care of," Marcus nodded. "Captain Santos owed your father a favor from ninety-four. The Miami PD won't respond to any calls from that block until four AM."
At 12:15 AM, the bass heavy beats of electronic music pulsed through the velvet-lined walls of L’Étoile.
In the VIP mezzanine overlooking the crowded dance floor, Lydia Vance sat in a plush white leather booth, sipping vintage champagne from a crystal flute.
She was thirty-two years old, striking, with dyed platinum-blonde hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, and a diamond necklace that cost more than most people earned in a decade. She wore a backless emerald-green silk dress that clung to her slender frame, her laughter loud and artificial as she flirted with a young Colombian developer sitting beside her.
She felt invincible. The cold, dangerous streets of Boston were fifteen hundred miles away. The mob, the police, the hospital—it was all behind her. She had eighteen million dollars in offshore accounts and a life of endless sun and luxury ahead.
Then, the music stopped.
It did not fade out. It died instantly, replaced by the sudden, terrifying sound of heavy boots marching across hardwood.
The club’s private security guards—three muscular men in black polo shirts—were shoved violently through the VIP curtains, falling onto the glass tables, shattering champagne bottles.
The patrons in the mezzanine gasped, scrambling out of their seats as six men in black tactical gear stepped into the private area, submachine guns slung across their chests.
Lydia stood up, her face flushing with anger. "What the hell is this?!" she shrieked, dropping her flute onto the floor. "Do you know who owns this club?! I’ll have you—"
The tactical team parted down the center.
Dominic Rourke walked into the VIP booth.
He wore a linen black suit, no tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. The neon green light of the nightclub hit the white, jagged scar on his cheek, making him look like a phantom risen from a graveyard.
Lydia’s voice died in her throat.
The champagne glass she was holding shattered on the marble floor. Her face went as pale as a bedsheet, her blue eyes dilating with a sudden, primal terror that turned her knees to water.
"D-Dominic..." she gasped, stumbling backward against the leather cushions of the booth. "Dominic... what... what are you doing here?"
Dominic walked toward her slowly, his hands in his pockets.
The young Colombian developer beside her stood up, reaching for his waistline. "Hey, amigo, you can't just come in here—"
Marcus Thorne stepped out from behind Dominic, seized the developer by his neck, and hurled him over the mezzanine railing onto the empty dance floor twenty feet below. The sound of the man’s body hitting the floor was followed by a sharp, collective shriek from the patrons below as they fled toward the exits.
Dominic did not even glance over the railing. He stopped two feet from Lydia.
"Hello, Lydia," Dominic said quietly, his low voice cutting through the ringing silence of the club.
"Dominic, please!" Lydia panicked, her hands trembling as she held them out in supplication. "I don't know what you’ve heard! Whatever Mercer told you, he’s lying! He’s trying to protect himself—"
"Mercer is currently sitting in a basement in South Boston, Lydia," Dominic interrupted smoothly. "He gave me the hospital records. He gave me the bank routing numbers. He gave me everything."
Lydia fell to her knees on the shattered glass, uncaring of the sharp shards cutting into her knees through her silk dress. "Dominic! I was scared! Julian was dead! Your father’s enemies were looking for us! I couldn't raise a baby in that world! I couldn't!"
Dominic knelt down in front of her, bringing his scarred face inches from hers.
"You took my brother's child," Dominic whispered, his gray eyes burning with an icy, demonic light. "You swapped her with a dead baby. You handed Julian’s blood to a maid... and you buried a stranger in my family's plot."
"I gave her a home!" Lydia wept hysterically. "The maid took care of her! The baby is alive, Dominic! She’s fine! I didn't hurt her!"
"You left her to rot in a third-floor apartment in Dorchester while you spent eighteen million dollars on champagne and Miami condos," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register that made Lydia’s heart stop beating for a terrifying second.
He reached out, his thick fingers wrapping securely around her diamond necklace.
With a slow, deliberate twist of his wrist, Dominic snapped the heavy platinum chain. The million-dollar diamonds spilled across her lap, falling into the pool of spilled champagne on the floor.
"Marcus," Dominic said, standing up.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Seize every asset under 'Victoria Sterling'," Dominic ordered coldly. "The penthouse, the bank accounts, the cars, the jewelry. Transfer every cent into a trust fund held in the name of Mia Rourke."
"And Lydia, sir?" Marcus asked.
Dominic looked down at the sobbing, broken woman crawling across the floor among her shattered diamonds.
"Lydia Vance is going back to Boston," Dominic commanded flatly. "She will stand trial in a federal courtroom for child trafficking, medical fraud, and conspiracy. I have three federal judges on my payroll who are very eager to ensure she spends the next forty years in a maximum-security state prison."
May you like
He turned his back on her, walking toward the exit.
"Death is too easy for you, Lydia," Dominic murmured as he pushed through the velvet curtains. "I want you to spend the rest of your life staring at concrete walls... knowing that my brother’s daughter is sleeping in my house, wearing my family’s name, and calling another woman 'Mama'."
