Chapter 7 The Man Who Should Have Been Dead
Dominic didn't stand.
He couldn't.
The elderly man remained near the office door, removing a worn leather cap from his head.
For several long seconds, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Dominic found his voice.
"My father died in a construction accident."
The old man gave a weary smile.
"That's what your mother wanted you to believe."
Dominic stared at him.
"No."
"I was there."
"You were six."
"I remember the funeral."
"There wasn't one."
The man's voice remained calm.
"There was a closed casket."
Dominic's heartbeat quickened.
His childhood memories suddenly felt... incomplete.
"My name is Daniel Vance," the man said quietly.
"And whether you believe me or not..."
"...I'm your father."
Dominic slowly sank back into his chair.
"This is impossible."
Daniel reached into his jacket and placed an old photograph on the desk.
A young Olivia smiled beside a handsome man in work boots, holding a toddler with bright blue eyes.
The toddler wore a tiny baseball cap.
Dominic recognized it instantly.
He still had that cap in a box at home.
His hands began to shake.
"I've looked for you for years," Daniel continued.
"Every time I got close..."
"...someone made sure I disappeared again."
Dominic swallowed hard.
"My mother told me you abandoned us."
Daniel laughed bitterly.
"No."
"I was paid to disappear."
"By who?"
Daniel looked directly into his son's eyes.
"Olivia."
Across town, Marcus had spent the entire night investigating Margaret Ashcroft.
On paper, she was beyond suspicion.
Chairwoman of three charities.
Board member of two universities.
Recipient of multiple humanitarian awards.
No criminal history.
No lawsuits.
No scandals.
Nothing.
"She's invisible," Marcus muttered.
Leo nodded.
"The best operators usually are."
I sat nearby holding Grace as she slept against my shoulder.
"People like Margaret don't stay invisible without help."
Marcus looked up.
"Exactly."
He slid another folder across the table.
"I checked every company Margaret donated to."
"And?"
"They all have one thing in common."
I scanned the list.
Technology firms.
Medical startups.
Investment groups.
Real estate trusts.
Nothing obvious.
Then Leo pointed to one familiar name.
Vance Holdings.
My eyes narrowed.
"Margaret donated to Dominic's company?"
Marcus nodded.
"Five years ago."
"How much?"
"Ten million dollars."
I frowned.
"I've never seen that in the annual reports."
"You weren't supposed to."
Leo opened another document.
"The donation came through a private foundation."
One signature appeared beneath the approval.
Olivia Vance.
Silence settled over the room.
For years, Dominic had believed he built his empire through talent and determination.
Now another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
His mother had quietly opened doors he never knew existed.
The question was...
Why?
That afternoon, Dominic drove directly to Olivia's estate.
She greeted him with a smile.
"You look exhausted."
He walked past her without answering.
Straight into the living room.
Then he placed the old photograph on the coffee table.
Olivia's smile disappeared.
"Where did you get that?"
"I met my father today."
The color drained from her face.
"You lied."
She remained silent.
"For twenty-six years."
Still nothing.
"He said you paid him to disappear."
Olivia slowly lowered herself into a chair.
"It wasn't that simple."
Dominic's voice rose.
"Then explain it."
She closed her eyes.
"I was protecting you."
"From what?"
"The truth."
Meanwhile...
Marcus received another call from one of his surveillance teams.
"We found Nathan."
Marcus immediately stood.
"Where?"
"A motel outside Riverside."
"Is he alone?"
There was a pause.
"No."
"Who's with him?"
"...Brooke."
Twenty minutes later, Marcus and two investigators quietly surrounded the small roadside motel.
Room 214.
Curtains closed.
Lights on.
Marcus approached carefully.
He heard voices inside.
Nathan sounded angry.
"You weren't supposed to call Amelia."
Brooke answered through tears.
"I couldn't let you kill her."
Marcus exchanged a glance with his team.
Kill her?
Nathan continued.
"You've become emotional."
"She has a baby."
"That's not our concern."
"It is now."
A loud slap echoed through the room.
Marcus immediately signaled his team.
Three...
Two...
One...
The door exploded inward.
"Federal investigators! Don't move!"
Nathan spun toward the window.
Too late.
Officers tackled him to the floor.
Brooke collapsed against the wall, sobbing.
"It's over," Marcus said.
Nathan smiled.
"No."
He looked almost relieved.
"You still don't understand."
Marcus handcuffed him.
"Then explain."
Nathan laughed quietly.
"You think I work for Margaret."
Marcus froze.
Nathan leaned closer.
"I don't."
Back at Sinclair & Black, my phone rang.
Marcus.
"We have Nathan."
Relief flooded through me.
"Is Brooke safe?"
"Yes."
"And Nathan?"
Marcus's voice sounded unusually tense.
"He's asking to speak only to you."
An hour later, I entered the interrogation room.
Nathan sat handcuffed behind a steel table.
He looked strangely calm.
Almost amused.
He nodded politely.
"Amelia."
"You wanted to see me."
"I wanted to warn you."
"I'm not interested in games."
He smiled.
"Neither am I."
I folded my arms.
"Then start talking."
Nathan looked directly at me.
"Everything you've been chasing..."
He paused.
"...is already too late."
"What do you mean?"
"You think Dominic was the target."
"He wasn't?"
Nathan slowly shook his head.
"You think the Sinclair Trust is the prize."
"It isn't?"
"No."
His smile faded for the first time.
"You've been protecting the wrong inheritance."
A cold sensation spread through my chest.
"What inheritance?"
Nathan leaned forward.
"The one your grandfather never told you about."
Before I could ask another question...
The lights inside the interrogation room suddenly went out.
Emergency alarms echoed through the building.
Someone shouted from the hallway.
"Power failure!"
Marcus reached for his flashlight.
Backup generators failed to start.
For thirty terrifying seconds...
The police station sat in complete darkness.
When the lights returned...
Nathan's chair was empty.
His handcuffs lay on the floor.
Still locked.
The only thing remaining on the table...
...was a small black envelope addressed to me.
May you like
In elegant handwriting, it read:
"Ask Richard Sinclair about Blackstone."
