Chapter 1 - The Crypt Beneath the Oak
The cold rain lashed against the windshield of my armored Maybach as we tore through the iron gates of Julian’s Highland Park estate.
Luca stood waiting on the grand portico, his black tactical jacket drenched, flanked by four armed operatives with heavy crowbars.
I did not wait for the driver to open my door; I stepped into the freezing sleet, my tailored Italian wool coat billowing in the wind.
My polished boots crunched over the shattered glass of the front entrance, where my tactical team had already bypassed the high-voltage alarm systems.
The grand mansion smelled of expensive French perfume, vintage scotch, and the sickening stench of human decay.
“Show me the cellar, Luca,” I commanded, my voice dropping into a register that made the seasoned soldiers stiffen.
Luca led me past the imported marble foyer, through the gourmet kitchen with its untouched sub-zero refrigerators, and into the rear pantry.
Behind a false mahogany wine rack sat a heavy, industrial-grade steel blast door secured with a five-digit digital keypad.
The keypad was splattered with dried blood—tiny, desperate fingerprints matching the hands of a six-year-old boy.
“The code was the anniversary of Julian’s death,” Luca whispered, pulling the heavy steel door open with a screech of ungreased hinges.
A wave of freezing, damp air rushed up from the subterranean staircase, carrying the distinct smell of moldy concrete and stale water.
I descended the stone steps, my tactical flashlight cutting through the pitch-black void of the hidden basement.
At the center of the windowless concrete room was an iron dog cage, barely four feet wide, lined with soaked cardboard and a single torn towel.
A rusted metal dog bowl sat in the corner, containing dried crusts of bread and murky water covered in a film of dust.
Next to the cage, scratched into the raw concrete wall with a broken piece of slate, were dozens of small tally marks.
Ninety marks.
Ninety days of absolute darkness.
Noah had counted every single sunrise he could not see, using his own fingernails to track the days since his father was buried.
On the cold floor beside the cage lay Chloe’s favorite stuffed rabbit, its plush ear ripped off and soaked in dark, dried blood.
My breath hitched in my throat as my heart slammed violently against my ribs like a caged beast.
My brother had built this mansion to be a palace of laughter and light for his children.
His deceitful widow had turned the foundation into an underground concentration camp for two defenseless orphans.
I picked up the blood-stained toy with my bare hand, clutching the ragged fabric until the stitching bit into my skin.
“Luca,” I spoke, my voice so quiet and terrifyingly still that the men behind me stopped breathing.
“Find out where Vivienne is spending Julian’s money right now.”
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“And tell the transport team to prepare the private dock at Lake Ray Hubbard.”
“Tonight, the city of Dallas is going to learn what happens when you touch the blood of Marcus Vance.”
