Chapter 7 - The Unearthing of the Lie
Adrian stood in the quiet, dim room of the private maternity wing, watching Madeline sleep. An IV line was taped to the back of her hand, pumping fluids into her body, and the soft, rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor filled the silence.
He reached out with a trembling hand, gently brushing a strand of dark hair away from her forehead.
She was pregnant. With his child.
The miraculous joy that should have filled his heart was instantly choked out by a wave of terrifying, cold rage.
Six years ago, after he was shot in Chicago, he had been treated at a private clinic owned by a medical group affiliated with the DeLuca family. The lead surgeon had been Dr. Richard Vance—a man who had been on the DeLuca payroll for over twenty years.
Dr. Vance was Giancarlo’s personal physician.
Adrian stepped out of Madeline’s room, his face transformed into a mask of pure, murderous vengeance.
Marco was standing by the door. "Boss?"
"Get the car," Adrian whispered, his voice dangerously low. "And call the boys from the docks. I want Dr. Richard Vance brought to the warehouse on 5th Street within the hour."
"Boss," Marco hesitated. "Dr. Vance is currently attending a medical gala at the Opryland Hotel—"
"I don't care if he is standing next to the Governor," Adrian hissed, his eyes glowing like hot coals. "Drag him out by his neck."
Forty-five minutes later, in the cold, cavernous basement of an abandoned freight warehouse near the Cumberland River, Dr. Richard Vance was tied to a wooden chair under a single dangling lightbulb. He was seventy years old, wearing a wrinkled tuxedo, his face slick with sweat as he stared at Adrian DeLuca walking slowly around him.
"Adrian! Please!" Dr. Vance whimpered, his hands shaking violently in the bindings. "I don't know what this is about! If this is about the medical bill for the clinic—"
Adrian didn't say a word. He walked over to a metal table, picked up a heavy Manila folder containing Madeline’s new hospital records, and slammed it onto Dr. Vance’s lap.
"Read it," Adrian commanded softly.
Dr. Vance opened the folder with trembling fingers. As his eyes scanned the pregnancy report from St. Catherine’s, his face went from pale to completely grey.
"Six years ago," Adrian said, stepping into the circle of light, his shadow looming over the old man like an executioner's shroud. "You told me the gunshot wound destroyed my reproductive system. You gave me fake medical reports. You let me live for six years believing I was half a man."
"Adrian... I... I was trying to protect you!" Vance sobbed.
Adrian reached out, grabbing the old doctor by his lapels, pulling him up until their faces were inches apart. "Who paid you, Richard?"
"I can't say! He'll kill me!" Vance shrieked.
Adrian pulled a heavy gold-plated pistol from his belt, pressing the cold steel barrel directly against the doctor's forehead. "He might kill you tomorrow, Richard. But I will kill you before you finish your next breath. Who paid you?"
"Giancarlo!" Dr. Vance screamed, breaking completely under the pressure. "It was Giancarlo! Six years ago, when you were shot in Chicago, Giancarlo paid me two million dollars to forge your fertility records! He knew that under the syndicate charter, an infertile boss could eventually be removed by the commission! He wanted to make sure you never married, never produced an heir, and left the family throne open for his sons!"
Adrian stared at the weeping old man.
The entire six-year nightmare. The isolation. The cold detachment he had forced upon himself. The belief that he was broken, unworthy of love, and destined to die alone—it had all been a calculated, methodical lie manufactured by his own uncle to steal his inheritance.
Adrian slowly lowered the gun. He looked at Marco, who was standing in the shadows of the warehouse, his face dark with shock and disgust.
"Keep him locked up here," Adrian ordered Marco. "Feed him. Keep him alive. He is going to testify in front of the entire commission on Friday night."
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Adrian turned and walked out of the warehouse into the rain. As he stepped into his car, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number for Elena at the estate.
"Elena," Adrian said, his voice cold as ice. "Prepare the house. My wife is coming home tomorrow. And tell security to double the guards at the perimeter. We are going to war."
