Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the Past
The paper in Emma’s tiny, trembling hands was damp from the rain, but the bold black ink at the top remained perfectly legible: CLARA CARTER.
My heart slammed against my ribs with the force of a battering ram.
Clara.
Seven years ago, Clara Carter hadn't just been my head of accounting; she had been the only person in this city who looked past the terrifying legacy of the Blackwood name and saw me. She was bright, fiercely independent, and possessed an uncanny knack for decoding complex corporate fraud. Then, overnight, she vanished without a trace, leaving behind an empty apartment and a void in my life that I had filled with cold, unyielding violence.
I had spent two years searching for her, eventually believing my father’s enemies had silenced her forever.
"Where is your mother, Emma?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave, stripped of all corporate coldness.
"In a tiny room near the docks," Emma whispered, her blue eyes brimming with tears. "She told me to stay under the blanket and wait for the fever to go away. But... but two men in dark coats came to our door last night. They were banging on it, saying they knew she was back in Boston. Mommy hid me in the closet and told me if anything happened, I had to bring this paper to the Blackwood Estate at sunrise."
I looked up at Harold, who stood by the door, his hand resting near his sidearm. The security chief’s face was stone-cold, but his eyes reflected the same realization that had just hit me.
"Harold," I commanded, standing up to my full height. "Get the SUV ready. Full tactical escort. Double guard on the estate perimeter."
"Sir," Harold warned quietly, "the O'Sullivans have been watching the dock district. If this is a trap—"
"If Clara Carter is alive and hiding near the docks," I growled, stepping toward my safe and pulling out a heavy black sidearm, "then the O'Sullivans are the least of their worries. Move!"
Emma looked up at me, shrinking back slightly as I racked the slide of the gun and holstered it beneath my suit jacket.
I knelt back down, taking off my heavy cashmere coat, and wrapped it around her tiny, shivering frame. The coat completely swallowed her up, but she buried her face into the soft fabric, smelling the warmth.
"Are you a bad man?" Emma asked softly, her voice muffled by the collar.
May you like
I looked into her pale blue eyes—eyes that were an exact replica of Clara’s, but framed by a subtle, familiar jawline that sent a chill straight down my spine.
"To some people, sweetheart," I said gently, lifting her securely into my arms. "But today, I'm the man who is going to save your mother."
