Chapter 2 - The Fire in the Iron House
The black Mercedes SUV pulled back onto the circular gravel driveway of the Lake Forest mansion at 6:45 p.m. The rain had intensified, falling in heavy, blinding sheets that drummed violently against the vehicle's armored roof.
Victor Blackwood stepped out into the storm. He didn't carry an umbrella. He walked slowly, his black wool overcoat absorbing the water, his leather shoes crunching over the gravel until he reached the front steps.
Behind him, four black sedans pulled up, blocking the driveway entrance. Eight armed men in tactical gear stepped out, quietly surrounding the perimeter of the estate.
Victor pushed open the front doors.
The foyer had been partially cleaned by a terrified maid, but the dark brown stain on the silk rug remained where Ethan’s juice and my blood had mixed.
Serena Montague was sitting on the velvet sofa in the grand drawing room, holding a glass of aged scotch. She had changed out of her ruined silk dress into a soft cashmere sweater, and her platinum hair was pinned up neatly. She looked like a queen waiting for her court to resume.
When Victor walked into the doorway, she stood up quickly, setting her glass on the glass table.
"Victor!" she exclaimed, her voice thick with practiced relief. "How is he? Did the doctor fix his little arm? I’ve been sitting here sick to my stomach for two hours! I was going to call my father to send his private specialist, but—"
Victor raised his right hand.
Serena stopped talking. The silence that filled the drawing room was so absolute that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like gunshots.
Victor walked over to the fireplace, unbuttoned his soaked overcoat, and tossed it onto an armchair. He reached down, picked up a heavy iron poker from the hearth set, and turned to face her.
"Victor... what are you doing?" Serena’s voice wobbled slightly. She took half a step backward, her diamond-encrusted fingers clutching her pearl necklace. "You’re scaring me."
"Sit down, Serena," Victor said softly.
"I... I prefer to stand—"
Victor slammed the heavy iron poker into the center of the mahogany coffee table.
CRACK.
The solid wood shattered down the middle, glass goblets exploding across the hardwood floor in a shower of crystal shards.
Serena shrieked, falling backward onto the velvet sofa, her knees hitting her chest, her face drained of every drop of color.
"I said sit down," Victor repeated, his voice low, steady, and devoid of human warmth.
Serena trembled violently, her hands shaking so hard she couldn't keep them flat on her lap. "Victor... please... it was an accident! I swear to God it was an accident! The baby was crying, he spilled juice on my dress, I grabbed his arm to stop him from tripping over the rug—"
"Nathan found Zolpidem in his blood, Serena," Victor interrupted, his pale gray eyes locked onto hers.
Serena froze. Her lower lip twitched. "What?"
"Six weeks of pediatric sedatives," Victor continued, taking a slow step toward the sofa. "Dosed into his evening milk every time you visited this house on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Why were you drugging my son, Serena?"
"I... I wasn't!" she stammered, her voice rising into an unnatural, shrill register. "That’s impossible! The nanny must have done it! Emily! She’s the one who feeds him! She’s the one who sleeps in the nursery wing! She’s trying to frame me, Victor! She wants your money! She wants your attention!"
Victor reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a small, transparent plastic bag. Inside sat a small glass vial with a blue dropper cap—found thirty minutes ago by Marcus’s men inside Serena’s leather handbag in the master closet.
"This was in your bag, Serena," Victor said quietly. "It has your fingerprints on the glass. And Ethan’s pediatric prescription record attached to a fraudulent medical license under your cousin’s name."
Serena’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. The mask of political royalty, social grace, and cold elegance crumbled into wet, pathetic ashes.
"He wouldn't stop crying!" Serena sobbed, sinking her face into her hands. "Every time I came here, that miserable little bastard would cry whenever I tried to hold him! He hated me! He looked at me like I was a stranger! How was I supposed to build a relationship with him if he was screaming every time your lieutenants walked into the room? I just wanted him quiet! I just wanted him to sleep so I could show your family that I could handle being his mother!"
Victor stood over her.
He didn't hit her. He didn't raise his hand. To a man like Victor Blackwood, physical violence against a sobbing woman was beneath his station; he possessed far more lethal tools.
"You didn't want to be his mother," Victor said softly. "You wanted the Blackwood name. You wanted the trustee seat on my foundation board. And you thought my son was an obstacle you could drug into submission."
"Victor, please!" Serena scrambled off the sofa onto her knees, reaching out to clutch at the cuffs of his trousers. "My father is the Senator! If you do anything to me, if you embarrass my family, the federal task force will reopen the dock investigations! My father will destroy your shipping licenses!"
Victor looked down at her with a look of profound, chilling pity.
"Your father," Victor whispered, leaning down until his face was inches from hers, "sold you to my father ten years ago to pay off his gambling debts in Macau. Arthur Montague doesn't own the docks, Serena. I own Arthur Montague. If I drop the ledger I hold on your father tomorrow morning, he will spend the rest of his life in a federal penitentiary in Colorado."
Serena gasped, her hand sliding off his trousers as if she had touched red-hot iron.
"Marcus," Victor called out.
The heavy doors of the drawing room swung open. Marcus walked in, flanked by two stone-faced guards.
"Take Miss Montague to the carriage house," Victor ordered. "Strip her of her phone, her jewelry, and her purse. She stays locked in the room until her father arrives tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. to sign the asset surrender documents."
"Victor! No! You can't do this to me! I am a Montague!" Serena shrieked as the two guards grabbed her under her arms, dragging her off the floor. "Victor! Please! Forgive me! Victor!"
Her screams faded down the long, stone corridor leading toward the rear courtyard.
Left alone in the shattered drawing room, Victor stood motionless for three long minutes. He walked over to the desk in the corner, unlocked the lower drawer, and pulled out a thick, black leather-bound binder.
He opened it.
Inside were thirty pages of surveillance photographs, financial records, and police reports.
On the top page was a high-resolution photograph of Lily Parker—or rather, the woman the world knew as Lily Parker.
Beneath the photograph, in bold black ink, was her real name: Hannah Vance.
Beneath her real name was a list of court filings from Franklin County, Ohio: Restraining Order Application (Denied). Domestic Battery Incident Report (Unsubstantiated). Missing Person Report filed by Derek Vance.
Victor turned the page. There was a photograph of a thirty-two-year-old man with broad shoulders, close-cropped blond hair, a thick neck, and a cold, arrogance-filled smile wearing a high school varsity coaching jacket.
Derek Vance.
Victor ran his thumb over the edge of the photograph.
May you like
"You ran from a monster," Victor whispered into the silent room. "And you ran right into my house to save my child."
He closed the binder, tucked it under his arm, and walked back out into the rain.
