Chapter 3 - The Crimson Docks
The rain hit the windshield of the armored Suburban like shrapnel as we tore through the industrial dock district of South Boston. Emma sat between Harold and me, holding a warm thermos of hot cocoa that my housekeeper had hastily prepared.
"It's the blue door at the end of the alley," Emma pointed with a chocolate-stained finger. "On top of the fish market."
The location was a rundown, condemned tenement building—a place where ghosts went to hide. But as my convoy pulled into the alley, my instincts went on high alert.
A black sedan with blacked-out windows was parked near the entrance, its engine idling. Two men in heavy raincoats were standing by the reinforced alley door, one of them holding a crowbar.
"O'Sullivan enforcers," Harold spat, checking his weapon. "They're trying to break in."
"Take them quietly," I ordered. "Don't scare the kid."
Before the two enforcers could react, four of my men stepped out of the trailing SUVs. The confrontation lasted less than ten seconds—swift, silent, and brutal. The enforcers were disarmed, gagged, and thrown into the back of our van before they could even draw their weapons.
I carried Emma up three flights of creaking wooden stairs, my men clearing every floor ahead of us.
At the end of a dim hallway, a heavy steel door sat locked from the inside.
"Mommy!" Emma called out, tapping her small knuckles against the wood. "Mommy, it's me! I brought the man from the paper!"
Inside, a loud crash echoed, followed by a weak, ragged gasp. "Emma...?! No, baby, run—!"
"Clara! It's Lucas!" I yelled, stepping in front of the door. "Stand back from the lock!"
I didn't wait for a response. I kicked the lock once with all my weight. The wooden frame splintered, and the door burst open.
The room inside was freezing, lit only by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. On a rusted iron bed in the corner lay Clara. She was pale, her lips blue, her skin burning with a deadly fever. Scattered across her small wooden table were dozens of encrypted financial ledgers and flash drives.
When her eyes met mine, a mix of utter terror and profound relief washed over her face.
"Lucas..." she choked out, trying to sit up, but her body collapsed back onto the mattress. "You... you actually came..."
"Of course I came," I said, dropping to my knees beside her bed, taking her burning hand in mine. "Why didn't you come to me seven years ago? Why did you run?!"
Clara looked at Emma, who had rushed to her side, burying her head in her mother's side.
"Because I found out who planted the bomb that killed your brother," Clara whispered, her voice trembling with fever. "It wasn't the O'Sullivans, Lucas. It was your underboss... Marcus. When I found the paper trail seven years ago, Marcus threatened to kill me—and the baby growing inside me."
I froze, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp gasp.
The baby.
May you like
I looked down at Emma, who was holding Clara's hand, then back at Clara.
"She's... she's yours, Lucas," Clara wept softly. "I hid her to keep her alive. But Marcus found us yesterday. He was the one who put the bomb under your Bentley last week... and he knows Clara is your daughter."
