Chapter 6 - THE SINS OF THE MOTHER
"Lock down the compound!" Marcus roared, his voice echoing off the marble floors. "No one gets in, no one gets out! Check the cameras!"
I couldn't breathe.
My knees hit the expensive tile floor, and I buried my face in my hands, a primal, tearing sob ripping from my chest.
They took him.
Right from under our noses. Right in the middle of a heavily guarded fortress.
Vincent was a blur of violent motion. He grabbed the nearest security guard by the lapels of his uniform and slammed him against the refrigerator.
"How does a six-year-old boy vanish from a kitchen with fifty armed men outside?!" Vincent bellowed, his face inches from the terrified guard.
"I—I don't know, boss!" the guard stammered. "We were watching the perimeter! Nobody came through the gates!"
"He didn't come through the gates," a weak voice said.
We all turned.
Thomas was standing in the doorway, escorted by the two guards. He was looking at me, and for the first time in ten years, the look in his eyes wasn't anger or pity.
It was absolute terror.
"What did you do, Thomas?" I whispered, scrambling to my feet. I crossed the kitchen and drove my fists into his chest. "Where is my baby?! What did you do?!"
"It wasn't J.D.," Thomas choked out, taking the hits without flinching. "I lied."
Vincent pulled me back, stepping in front of Thomas with lethal intent. "Explain. Now. Or I'll skin you alive on this floor."
"J.D. didn't come back," Thomas wept, sinking to his knees. "J.D. died in that camp ten years ago."
The air left Vincent’s lungs. He staggered back a half-step, the devastating blow of losing his brother a second time washing over his face.
"Then who planted the watch?" Marcus demanded, his gun drawn. "Who was on the tape?"
"His son," Thomas cried.
The silence in the kitchen was absolute.
"What?" Vincent breathed.
"Before J.D. was taken, he had a girl on the side," Thomas explained, tears mixing with the dirt on his face. "Nobody knew. Not even you, Vincent. She was pregnant. When J.D. disappeared, she went into hiding. She had a boy."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
A boy.
A teenager in a heavy leather coat.
A boy who looked exactly like J.D.
"Who has my son, Thomas?" I asked, my voice trembling with a dark, terrifying rage I didn't know I possessed.
"The boy's name is Julian," Thomas confessed. "He blames you, Vincent. He blames you for letting his father rot. He found out about me... about my role in driving the car. He forced me to help him infiltrate the house."
"How did he get in today?" Vincent asked softly, lethally.
"The catacombs," Marcus realized, his eyes widening. "The old prohibition tunnels under the mansion. We sealed them years ago."
"Julian found the blueprints," Thomas said. "He came up through the cellar. He took Leo to ensure you show up at the pier tonight without your army. An eye for an eye, Vincent. The brother you lost for the boy she loves."
Vincent turned to me.
There were no words. The mafia boss, the ruthless killer, the man who owned the city, looked at me with profound, devastating apology.
"I will get him back, Claire," Vincent vowed, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. "Even if I have to burn this city to the ground, I will bring your son home."
"No," I said quietly.
Vincent frowned. "Claire—"
"You aren't going to burn the city down, Vincent," I said, wiping the tears from my face. My fear was gone. It was replaced by a cold, searing maternal instinct that demanded blood.
I looked at Thomas.
"You know where he is," I said to my ex-husband. "You know exactly where Julian is holding him."
Thomas looked away. "I can't, Claire. He'll kill me."
I walked over to a heavy wooden block on the kitchen counter.
I pulled out an eight-inch chef's knife.
The guards tensed. Marcus raised his hand to stop them.
I walked back to Thomas, knelt down, and pressed the tip of the blade hard against his thigh.
"You owe me eight years of child support, Thomas," I whispered, pressing the blade until a small dot of crimson bloomed on his jeans. "But right now, I just want an address. Give it to me, or I will carve you to pieces."
Thomas stared at me, horrified.
"Pier 44 is a diversion," Thomas gasped, shrinking away from the blade. "He's at St. Jude's. The abandoned church on 5th Avenue. He's waiting in the bell tower."
I pulled the knife back and stood up.
I turned to Vincent.
"I know that church," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I used to clean it before it was shut down. I know every door. I know every blind spot."
"Claire, you are not coming with us," Vincent said firmly. "It's a tactical entry. There will be gunshots."
"He has my son, Vincent!" I screamed, the calm shattering. "He is using my baby to punish you! I am not sitting in this kitchen waiting for a phone call!"
Vincent stared at me. He saw the fire in my eyes, the desperation that matched his own.
He slowly nodded.
"Marcus," Vincent ordered. "Get her a vest."
Twenty minutes later, we were in the back of a tactical van speeding toward 5th Avenue.
I was wearing a heavy Kevlar vest over my sweater. Marcus handed me a small earpiece.
"Keep your head down, stay behind me, and do not make a sound," Marcus instructed.
I nodded, gripping the edge of the seat.
Vincent sat across from me, checking the magazine of his sidearm.
"Claire," Vincent said softly over the rumble of the van.
I looked up.
"If Julian aims a gun at you," Vincent said, his eyes filled with a terrifying resolve, "I will kill my nephew. Do you understand?"
Before I could answer, the van slammed on its brakes.
"We're here," the driver announced.
The back doors flew open, revealing the towering, gothic spires of St. Jude's Cathedral, silhouetted against the dark, stormy sky.
As we stepped out into the rain, my phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket.
It wasn't a call. It was a text message from an unknown number.
I looked at the screen, and my heart completely stopped.
I grabbed Vincent's arm, pulling him back from the church doors.
"Vincent," I choked out, showing him the screen.
It was a picture of Leo. He was tied to a chair in the bell tower.
But standing behind him, holding a gun to my son's head, wasn't a teenager.
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It wasn't Julian.
It was Marcus.
