Chapter 4 - THE EMPTY HOUSE AND THE COAT
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Blood on the coat.
Vincent turned to the two massive security guards standing by my hospital door.
"Nobody comes into this room unless Dr. Aris is with them. You check IDs, you check faces. If anyone tries to push past you, break their legs."
"Yes, Boss," the guards answered in unison.
Vincent looked back at me.
"I have to go, Clara."
"Bring her home, Vincent," I whispered, tears filling my eyes. "Bring Grace home."
He nodded once, a silent vow, and sprinted out the door.
I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, my hands protectively resting on my stomach.
Daniel had died to keep that little girl safe. And now, four years later, Richard Sterling had finally found her.
Vincent arrived at the farmhouse twenty minutes later.
The rain had started to fall, washing away the tire tracks in the muddy driveway.
Four of Vincent’s men were already securing the perimeter.
Vincent ignored them and walked straight through the shattered front door.
The small living room was a disaster. Lamps were overturned. A coffee table was smashed.
And lying in the center of the rug was a tiny, bright yellow raincoat.
Vincent dropped to his knees.
He picked up the small coat. It was incredibly light.
Near the collar, there was a dark, reddish-brown smear.
Vincent’s chest hitched. He pressed his face into the fabric, breathing in the faint scent of strawberries and rain.
My daughter.
"Boss," Marco said gently from the hallway. "The blood... it’s not fresh. And it’s not from a child."
Vincent looked up sharply.
Marco pointed to the shattered glass near the window.
"Someone fought back. Whoever broke in got cut on the glass. The blood on the coat transferred during a struggle."
Vincent let out a shaky breath, standing up.
"Sarah," Vincent said. "Clara’s sister-in-law. She fought them."
"She put up a hell of a fight," Marco nodded. "But they took them both. There are zip-ties on the kitchen floor."
Vincent began pacing the room, his mind racing.
He walked into the small kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink. Two plates. One large, one small.
A box of crayons was scattered across the small dining table.
Vincent walked over.
There was a piece of white printer paper on the table.
It was a child’s drawing.
Vincent picked it up.
It was a drawing of a beautiful woman with dark hair, standing next to a little girl. Above them, drawn in bright yellow crayon, was a massive, shining star.
But off to the side, drawn in harsh, black scribbles, was a man.
The man had a jagged red line down the side of his face.
Vincent froze.
A scar.
"Marco," Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave.
Marco stepped into the kitchen. "Yeah?"
Vincent held up the drawing.
"Richard Sterling’s personal fixer. The man he uses to clean up his messes. Does he have a scar?"
Marco’s eyes widened. "Victor Vargas. Former cartel enforcer. He has a massive burn scar down the left side of his jaw."
"Vargas took my daughter," Vincent said, crushing the drawing in his fist.
Suddenly, a sharp ringing pierced the silence of the kitchen.
Vincent spun around.
It wasn't his phone.
Lying on the floor, kicked under the refrigerator during the struggle, was an old flip phone.
Vincent knelt down and pulled it out.
The screen said: UNKNOWN CALLER.
Vincent flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.
He didn't speak.
For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing on the other end of the line.
Then, a polished, arrogant voice spoke.
"I assume you're standing in the farmhouse, Vincent."
Vincent’s blood turned to ice.
"Richard."
"It's a shame about the front door," Richard Sterling said smoothly. "But Sarah was remarkably uncooperative. A stubborn family trait, it seems. Her brother was the same way."
"Where is she?" Vincent growled, his knuckles turning white around the small phone.
"Grace is perfectly fine," Richard said. "A beautiful child. She looks exactly like Elena. It’s uncanny."
"If you touch one hair on her head, Richard, I will spend the rest of my life tearing you apart piece by piece."
Richard laughed. A cold, soulless sound.
"You won't do anything of the sort, Vincent. Because you’re a businessman. And we are going to make a trade."
"What do you want?"
"Everything," Richard said simply. "I want the deed to the Moretti estate. I want the shipping ports. I want the offshore accounts transferred to my name. And I want Vanessa released from your wine cellar."
Vincent’s jaw locked.
"And in return?"
"In return, I leave Grace at a designated drop-off point. Alive."
Vincent closed his eyes. He had the money. He didn't care about the empire. He only cared about his little girl.
"Let me hear her voice," Vincent demanded.
"I don't think that's necessary."
"Let me hear her voice, Richard, or I burn the shipping ports to the ground tonight and you get nothing!"
There was a long pause.
Then, a rustling sound.
"Speak," a gruff voice—Vargas—ordered in the background.
A tiny, trembling voice came through the speaker.
"Hello?"
Vincent’s knees almost buckled.
"Grace?" he whispered, tears instantly flooding his eyes. "Grace, sweetheart, it's... it's your father."
"My mommy said my daddy is a hero," the little girl sniffled. "Are you coming to get me?"
"I'm coming," Vincent promised, his voice breaking. "I swear to you, I'm coming right now."
The phone was snatched away.
"You have one hour, Vincent," Richard said. "I'll text you the coordinates. Come alone."
The line went dead.
Vincent stared at the phone.
He didn't have the legal paperwork drawn up. He couldn't transfer an entire empire in an hour. Richard knew that.
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Richard wasn't planning on making a trade.
He was planning an execution.
