Chapter 2 - The False Bottom
Dr. Marcus Harris arrived within seven minutes, flanked by two paramedics. The entrance hall had transformed into a crime scene wrapped inside an emotional warzone.
“Vincent, let the medics work,” Dr. Harris said firmly, pressing his stethoscope against my abdomen.
I was weeping silently on the velvet sofa, terrified of losing the only piece of my husband Daniel I had left. “Is she okay? Doctor, please…”
“Your cervix is closed, Clara,” Dr. Harris said after a tense minute, his face softening. “It’s severe muscle strain and Braxton Hicks contractions triggered by acute physical stress. The baby’s heartbeat is strong. One hundred and forty beats per minute. But you need bed rest immediately. No moving.”
“She’s not leaving this house,” Vincent ordered from the base of the stairs. His coat was off, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. In his left hand, he still gripped the yellowed medical file. In his right, he held the dead black smartphone that had belonged to his missing wife. “Daniel, escort Clara up to the master guest suite. Station two men outside her door. If anyone—*anyone*—bothers her, shoot them.”
“Vincent, please, you’re being insane!” Vanessa sobbed, cornered against the grand mahogany front doors by two armed guards. “I didn’t know about the baby! I swear to God, I didn’t know! Richard handled everything when Elena left!”
Vincent didn't look at her. He marched toward his security lead. “Where is the charger for this model phone?”
“On it, boss,” Daniel replied, sprinting toward the private study.
Vincent crouched beside the sofa before they wheeled me onto the portable gurney. His fierce, predatory eyes were bloodshot, swimming with grief and rage, yet when he spoke to me, his tone was dangerously level.
“Clara.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?” I whispered, clutching my stomach.
“You touched this case upstairs. What room did she pull it from?”
“The east storage closet,” I choked out, the memory flashing through my mind. “Behind the old wardrobe. But Mr. Moretti… there was a photograph. Before you came home, she had a picture in her hand. She was crying, and when she heard my footsteps, she tossed it into the study fireplace.”
Vincent’s jaw muscles twitched. “Daniel! Check the study hearth. Sift the ashes. Now.”
He stood and turned toward Vanessa. The sheer predatory aura radiating from him made the guards take a half-step back. Vincent had built his empire on ruthlessness, but for four years, he had lived with the agonizing belief that his beloved wife had discarded him like trash for another life in Europe.
Now, the veil, the ring, the ultrasound report, and the hidden blanket proved she had never left of her own free will.
“You’re going to sit in the study, Vanessa,” Vincent said, his voice deadly quiet. “And you’re going to pray to whatever god you believe in that my daughter is alive. Because if she isn't, your father’s wealth won’t buy enough dirt in Illinois to bury what’s left of your family.”
Twenty minutes later, I was settled into the luxurious king-sized bed in the second-floor guest wing. An IV line hydrated my exhausted veins, and a fetal monitor hummed beside me, the rhythmic *whoosh-whoosh* of my baby’s heartbeat filling the quiet room.
The door opened softly. It wasn't the nurse. It was Vincent.
He carried a glass of water and set it on the nightstand. His hands, usually steady enough to handle firearms without a tremor, were shaking.
“Dr. Harris gave you a mild sedative. You should sleep,” he said.
“I can’t,” I replied softly. “Mr. Moretti… what did you find in the hearth?”
Vincent reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a scorched scrap of photographic paper. The edges were blackened, but the center was preserved.
It showed a dark-haired woman—Elena—holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket. But beside her sat a man whose face had been partially burned away. All that remained was a distinctive tattoo on his right forearm: an anchor intertwined with ivy.
My breath stopped in my throat. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard the monitor beeped erratically.
“Clara?” Vincent stepped closer, his dark brows furrowing. “What is it?”
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“That tattoo,” I whispered, tears blinding my vision. I reached out with a trembling hand, touching the charred edge of the photo. “That’s… that was my husband. That was Daniel.”
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