Chapter 3 - The Cottage at the Docks
The rain was pouring in gray, blinding sheets over the Hudson River when my black SUV pulled into the overgrown gravel driveway behind the abandoned dockmaster’s cottage at Port 4.
I had retrieved the vehicle from the carriage house, bypassed the estate’s GPS tracking relay, and armed myself with my father's old custom Colt .45 from the gun safe in the workshop.
Emma sat in the front passenger seat, wrapped in a warm dry blanket I had found in the car, clutching a warm bottle of milk I had grabbed from the carriage house pantry.
Her cheeks were warm now, her brown eyes fixed on the small, dilapidated wooden cottage fifty yards away in the dark. A single yellow light burned behind the drawn blinds of the front window.
Parked in front of the porch was a silver Mercedes sedan—Vivien Romano’s car.
"Stay in the car, Emma," I said, adjusting the heater so the warm air filled the cabin. "Lock the doors from the inside. Do you see this red button on the dashboard?"
She nodded solemnly, her small lips wet with milk.
"If anyone other than me comes near this door, you press that button. It calls the state police immediately. Understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Alex," she whispered. "Bring Mommy back?"
"I'm bringing her back," I promised.
I opened the door, stepped out into the howling wind and driving rain, and pulled the hood of my coat over my head. The weight of the Colt .45 felt solid, heavy, and reassuring against my ribs.
I moved silently through the tall grass surrounding the cottage, avoiding the squeaking wooden planks of the front porch, and made my way to the low side window near the kitchen.
Inside, the cottage was bare, smelling of damp wood and kerosene.
Sophia Carter sat bound to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room. Her dark hair was disheveled, her pale face bruised near her left cheekbone, her eyes red and swollen with exhaustion. Her work uniform was torn at the collar, but her posture was rigid, her chin held high despite her obvious physical suffering.
Standing over her was Vivien Romano.
My fiancée looked immaculate, as always. She wore a three-thousand-dollar beige trench coat, her blonde hair styled in flawless waves, a diamond engagement ring—my ring—sparkling on her left hand under the harsh overhead bulb.
In her right hand, Vivien held a thick stack of legal documents and a heavy fountain pen.
"Sign the confession, Sophia," Vivien said, her voice dripping with venomous disdain. "It's four in the morning. Alexander is trapped in the cellar, and Marco is finalizing the Panama transfers. Nobody is coming to save you."
"I won't sign it," Sophia rasped, her voice dry and hoarse. "I know what those ledgers mean. If I sign this, you'll pin the entire shipping fraud on me and Alexander. You'll ruin him, and you'll put me in prison for twenty years!"
"Alexander is an arrogant fool who thought he could run this empire without my father's bank!" Vivien snarled, stepping closer and slapping the stack of papers against Sophia’s chest. "He treated me like a trophy, an ornament to display at his corporate galas! He never loved me, and he certainly didn't trust me with his business. Marco understands power. Marco knows how to build an empire that serves us!"
"And my daughter?" Sophia wept softly, her body trembling against the ropes. "Where is Emma? What did you do to my little girl?"
Vivien laughed—a cold, sharp sound that made my skin crawl.
"Your little girl is currently locked in the staff quarter pantry," Vivien said carelessly. "And by tomorrow afternoon, when state authorities find her abandoned in that massive estate, she’ll be placed in a state foster facility three hundred miles from here. You will never see her again, Sophia. Not unless you sign these papers."
Sophia gasped, a sound of absolute, soul-crushing agony ripping from her throat. "You monster... she’s three years old! She’s just a baby!"
"Then sign!" Vivien yelled, forcing the pen into Sophia’s bound fingers.
CRASH.
The front door of the cottage exploded inward in a shower of splintered oak and shattered iron hinges.
Vivien screamed, dropping the papers as she stumbled backward against the wall.
I stepped through the shattered doorway, the cold rain dripping from my black coat, my Colt .45 raised and locked directly onto the bridge of my fiancée’s nose.
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"Alexander?!" Vivien gasped, her face draining of every drop of color, her knees buckling beneath her. "How... how are you—"
"Step away from her, Vivien," I said, my voice as cold and quiet as the grave.
