Chapter 3: Shadows of Manhattan
“Elena! Elena!” I shouted into the phone, but the line was completely dead.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped animal. The sound of that crash meant she was in immediate danger—or worse. I couldn’t just sit by and let my corporate lawyers handle this. This wasn’t a hostile takeover; it was a matter of life and death.
I bypassed my usual luxury SUV and led the boys to a nondescript, armored black sedan I kept in the basement structure for emergencies. I buckled Lucas and Noah into the backseat. They were incredibly quiet, their small faces pale with a maturity no seven-year-old should possess.
“Daddy,” Lucas whispered as I climbed into the driver's seat. “Is Mama going to be okay?”
I looked at them through the rearview mirror. I wanted to lie. I wanted to give them the comforting, easy answer. But looking into their eyes, I knew they needed strength, not platitudes.
“Your Mama is the bravest woman I’ve ever known,” I said, starting the engine. “And I am going to do everything in my power to bring her back. But right now, I need you two to be my co-pilots. Can you do that?”
Both boys nodded solemnly, wiping their eyes.
I drove out of the garage, avoiding the main streets where I knew reporters would already be gathering. Instead, I headed toward a secure, private penthouse I owned in Brooklyn—a property bought under a shell company that practically nobody, not even Victoria, knew about.
As I navigated the heavy Manhattan traffic, my mind raced over Elena’s final words. “Don’t trust the police... He’s working for—” Who? Who could possibly want to kidnap a quiet artist from Maine and hunt down two young boys?
Suddenly, a pair of headlights flashed behind me. A heavy-duty black SUV was tailing us, aggressively changing lanes to keep up. I accelerated, taking a sharp left onto a side street. The SUV followed, its engine roaring as it accelerated to pull up beside us.
The passenger window of the SUV rolled down, and a man pointed a dark object at our car.
Thud! Thud!
Two loud impacts rattled the side of my sedan. They weren’t shooting bullets—they were tracking devices.
“Hold on!” I yelled to the boys.
I slammed on the brakes. The heavy SUV, caught off guard, shot past us. I threw the sedan into reverse, executed a hard J-turn in the middle of the narrow street, and sped off in the opposite direction toward the Williamsburg Bridge. My hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.
Whoever these people were, they had deep resources. They knew my vehicles, they knew the city, and they were willing to use force in broad daylight.
By the time we reached the Brooklyn penthouse, it was late evening. The boys were exhausted, practically falling asleep on their feet. I carried them inside one by one, tucking them into a massive guest bed. As I pulled the blankets over Noah, he mumbled sleepily, “You smell like Mama’s paintings.”
I paused. “What do you mean, buddy?”
“She painted a big picture of a man by the ocean,” Noah murmured, his eyes closing. “She told us it was you. She said you smelled like rain and cedar wood. Just like now.”
A lump formed in my throat. For seven years, I had resented her for leaving, thinking she had moved on and forgotten me. But she had kept my memory alive for our sons. She had loved me all this time.
My phone rang, breaking the silence. It was Dr. Aris.
“Alex, I have the results,” the doctor said, his voice unusually grave.
“And?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Lucas and Noah are undeniably, 100% your biological sons. The genetic match is perfect.”
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A profound wave of emotion washed over me—relief, joy, and a terrifying sense of responsibility. I was a father. The doctors from my past had been wrong; the miracle was real.
“But Alex, there’s something else,” Dr. Aris continued, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. “Directly after I input your files into the secure medical database, someone bypassed our firewall. They didn't just look at the results—they downloaded your entire genetic profile and the boys' files. And Alex... the IP address used to hack us? It came from inside Sterling Industries. From the executive floor.”
