Chapter 2 - The Truth in the Ledger
The hum of medical monitors was the first thing that greeted me when I pulled myself out of the dark void.
I was lying in a state-of-the-art medical bay built beneath the west wing of Blackthorne House. A thick bandage was wrapped tightly around my torso, and an IV line was taped to the back of my left hand. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the room.
I stirred, groaning as a surge of white-hot pain shot through my fractured ribs.
"Don't try to move," a deep, quiet voice commanded from the shadows beside the bed.
I turned my head. Dominic was sitting in a high-backed leather chair. His tuxedo jacket was gone, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his white dress shirt was still stained with my dried blood. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his jaw was covered in heavy stubble. He held a crystal glass of whiskey in his hand, but he hadn't touched it.
"How long?" I rasped, my throat dry as sandpaper.
"Fourteen hours," Dominic replied, his voice flat and unreadable. "My private surgeons removed two 9mm rounds from your flank and repaired your shattered collarbone. They said a normal woman would have died from hypovolemic shock on the marble floor."
He set his glass down on the side table with a quiet clink.
"A normal woman," Dominic repeated, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark, penetrating gaze pinned me to the bed. "A normal woman doesn't have military-grade surgical scars across her shoulder blades. A normal woman doesn't have an altered fingerprint pattern on her right hand. And a normal woman certainly doesn't brace her core to deflect the force of a bullet when jumping into a line of fire."
My breath hitched.
Dominic reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a thick black leather folder, tossing it onto my blanket.
"I had my intelligence chief run a deep spectral scan on the catering company's dead shooter," Dominic said cold-bloodedly. "He wasn't a local hitman. He was an active operative tied to a ghost syndicate operating out of Geneva. And three minutes before he opened fire, his tactical earpiece received a single encrypted command from a satellite burner phone."
Dominic opened the folder, revealing a high-resolution photograph of the man with the scar—Gideon Vance.
"Who is he, Mara?" Dominic demanded, his tone dropping into a deadly whisper that vibrated through the small medical room. "Or should I call you Seraphina?"
The air left my chest. He had heard it too.
I closed my eyes, tears of frustration burning beneath my lids. The quiet, safe life I had built as a maid at Blackthorne House—the rainy afternoons spent drawing pictures with Caleb, the quiet moments stealing glances at Dominic in the library—was officially shattered beyond repair.
"His name is Gideon Vance," I whispered, opening my eyes and looking directly into the eyes of New York’s most dangerous man. "He is my cousin. And eight years ago, he was supposed to be dead."
Dominic didn't flinch. "Go on."
"My real name is Seraphina Vance," I revealed, my voice trembling slightly. "I was raised inside The Obsidian Network—an international syndicate of elite mercenaries and intelligence brokers that sells geopolitical blackmail to the highest bidder. My father was the head of the Network. I was trained from the age of six to be their finest field operative, their perfect asset."
Dominic’s eyes widened slightly, but he remained dead quiet.
"When I was twenty-one, my father ordered me to assassinate a family of four in Vienna because the father had uncovered our ledger," I choked out, a wave of unbearable shame washing over me. "I couldn't do it. I helped the family escape, faked my own death in a car bombing in Zurich, and fled to America. I swore I would never touch a weapon again."
"Why Blackthorne House?" Dominic asked, his hands clenching into tight fists. "Why my son?"
"Because I knew who you were, Dominic!" I yelled softly, wincing as pain flared in my ribs. "I knew your empire was impenetrable! I knew that if there was one place on this planet where The Obsidian Network couldn't reach me, it was behind your iron gates! I didn't come here to hurt Caleb! I came here to hide!"
Dominic stood up slowly. He walked over to the side of the bed, towering over me.
For a long, agonizing moment, I waited for him to call his guards, to pull out a gun, or to throw me out into the rain for bringing an international syndicate to his doorstep.
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Instead, Dominic reached out. His large, rough hand gently brushed a strand of hair away from my pale, sweat-stained forehead. His thumb lightly traced the line of my jaw.
"You took three bullets for my six-year-old boy, Seraphina," Dominic murmured softly, his dark eyes brimming with a fiercely protective heat. "I don't give a damn about your past. I don't give a damn about your real name. In this house, you protected my child. And nobody touches what belongs to Blackthorne House."
