Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Anchor
Dominic’s private office was located in the north wing—the wing Mrs. Hargrove had specifically forbidden Clara to enter.
It was a fortress. The doors were reinforced steel covered in dark mahogany paneling. Monitors lined one wall, displaying live feeds of every square foot of the estate, the perimeter fences, and the gatehouses. On the heavy desk sat three encrypted satellite phones and a glass of scotch that hadn't been touched.
Dominic walked behind his desk, but he didn't sit down. He turned to face Clara, resting his powerful hands on the edge of the dark wood.
"You're hiding something from me," Dominic stated. It wasn't an accusation; it was a cold declaration of fact. "My guards saw Noah give you a paper. What was on it?"
Clara stood her ground near the door. She knew that if she betrayed Noah’s trust, the child would lock himself away forever. But she also knew that Dominic was a man who could make people vanish without a trace.
"If I tell you, you have to promise not to react in front of him," Clara said boldly.
Dominic’s jaw tightened. "You are pushing your luck, girl."
"I am protecting your son," Clara fired back, her voice ringing with clear conviction. "He is terrified, Mr. Vale. Not of you, not of the dark, but of what he saw. If you go in there like a wrecking ball, he will never show me another drawing."
Dominic stared at her, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unreadable fire. After three long seconds, he gave a single, curt nod. "Speak."
Clara walked forward and sat down in the heavy leather chair opposite his desk. She took out her sketch pad and quickly recreated the drawing Noah had shown her from memory—the black SUV, the three faceless tall figures, the red crosses, and finally, the coiled snake around the anchor.
She slid the paper across the desk.
Dominic looked down. When his eyes hit the symbol of the snake and the anchor, every muscle in his face went dead rigid.
The color did not leave his face—instead, his features turned to stone. His hand closed around the edge of the paper so hard the wood of his desk creaked under his grip.
"Where did he draw this?" Dominic whispered, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sent shivers down Clara’s spine.
"On a piece of paper he hid in his pocket," Clara said. "Mr. Vale... what is that symbol?"
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass window overlooking the rainy gardens, and took a deep breath.
"Five years ago, I entered into a logistics partnership with a syndicate out of Montreal," Dominic said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, which made it ten times more terrifying. "They called themselves The Anchor Society. They used my freight routes to move illegal cargo across the border. When I found out what the cargo was—human trafficking—I pulled out. I destroyed their warehouses in Chicago. I gave their names to federal prosecutors."
He turned around, his eyes wild with a suppressed, lethal fury.
"Six months later, my wife’s car was run off the road on Interstate 90. The police told me it was a hit-and-run by an unidentified truck. They said Noah survived because he was strapped into his car seat in the back."
Dominic walked back to the desk, pointing a trembling, scarred finger at the symbol Clara had drawn.
"That symbol belongs to Jean-Paul Laurent. The head of The Anchor Society. The feds told me Laurent was dead. They said he died in a prison fire in Quebec three years ago."
Clara felt the room spin. "Noah saw him."
"Noah didn't just see him," Dominic said, leaning over the desk, his voice shaking with revelation. "Noah saw the men who killed his mother. He saw the symbol on their jackets. He’s not crazy. He’s not traumatized beyond repair. He’s been trying to tell me who murdered my wife for two years!"
Before Clara could digest the terrifying truth, an alarm began to chime softly on Dominic’s desk monitor.
One of the perimeter cameras showed a black delivery van pulling up to the back service gate of the estate.
Dominic’s eyes flicked to the screen.
"That's strange," Dominic muttered, his hand moving toward his desk intercom. "No deliveries were scheduled for today."
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On the monitor, the back doors of the delivery van slid open.
Three men in dark tactical gear stepped out. On the sleeves of their jackets was a patch embroidered with a white snake coiled around a steel anchor.
