Chapter 2 - The Audit of Betrayal
While the surgeons at St. Gabriel fought to keep Claire and my unborn child alive, I sat in the chief of surgery’s private office, which I had commandeered as a temporary command center.
The room was dark, lit only by the green banker’s lamp on the mahogany desk and the blue glare of four laptops handled by my digital security team.
Miles stood by the door, his arms crossed, his face a grim mask of guilt. He had been the one who brought me the initial dossier on Claire eight months ago—the dossier that Savannah had slipped into his hands through an anonymous source.
"We ran the digital forensics on the original files, boss," Miles said, his voice quiet in the tense room. "The bank routing numbers that supposedly linked Claire’s account to the FBI’s safe-horizon fund... they were spoofed. The transfers originated from a shell company registered in Panama."
"And who owns the shell company?" I asked. My hands were clasped in front of my face, my chin resting on my knuckles.
"Savannah’s father, Robert Reed," Miles replied.
A cold, mocking laugh escaped my lips. It was a sound devoid of any humanity. I had trusted Savannah. I had let her occupy the space beside me because she was convenient, because her father was a useful politician, and because I had been too proud, too arrogant to believe that someone could successfully play me.
"They used me," I whispered. "They used my paranoia to drive away the only clean thing in my life, so they could secure their hold on my assets."
"There's more, Adrian," Miles said, stepping forward and placing a tablet on the desk. "We pulled the security footage from the alley behind Claire’s apartment building in Brooklyn. She’s been living there since you threw her out. The building is owned by a subsidiary of Reed Enterprises."
The screen showed a grainy, black-and-white feed from three hours ago.
Claire, heavily pregnant, wearing an oversized winter coat, was walking toward the entrance of her building. Two men in dark hoodies stepped out of the shadows. They didn't ask for her purse. They didn't threaten her. One of them simply kicked her legs out from under her, while the other struck her repeatedly in the abdomen with a heavy wooden bat.
I watched the screen, my eyes widening, my throat closing up. Claire had curled into a ball, her arms wrapped desperately around her stomach, trying to shield our baby from the blows. The men left her bleeding on the cold concrete, taking nothing but her phone.
"Who are they, Miles?" I asked. The voice didn't sound like mine. It sounded like a wind blowing through an open grave.
"Local muscle from the waterfront," Miles said. "They work for a union boss named Vance, who is on Robert Reed’s payroll. They were hired to make sure she didn't survive to term, Adrian. Savannah knew about the pregnancy. She’s been tracking Claire’s medical records through a corrupt clinic in Queens."
I closed the laptop with a sharp, violent snap that cracked the plastic casing.
"Bring Robert Reed to the warehouse," I commanded, standing up. The sheer, physical presence of my anger seemed to occupy the entire room, making the air feel thin. "Bring him in his pajamas. Let him know that if he makes a sound, his daughter will be the first one to pay the tax."
"And Savannah, boss?"
"Leave her in the holding room," I said, walking toward the door. "Let her listen to the sound of her father’s empire being dismantled brick by brick. But first, I am going to the ICU."
As I stepped back into the corridor, the elevator doors slid open, and the chief of surgery, Dr. Gregory, stepped out. He was pale, his surgical mask hanging loose around his neck, his hands covered in faint, scrubbed pink stains.
"Mr. Cross," he said, catching his breath.
My heart stopped beating for one agonizing second. "Tell me."
"The baby is in the NICU," Dr. Gregory said. "It’s a boy. He’s small—barely four pounds—but his lungs are strong. He’s breathing on his own."
A ragged, choking breath escaped my throat. "And Claire?"
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Dr. Gregory looked down at his shoes, and my world tilted on its axis. "We stopped the internal bleeding, but her heart stopped twice on the table. She’s in a medically induced coma, Mr. Cross. The next forty-eight hours will decide if her brain suffered any permanent damage from the oxygen deprivation."
I didn't say a word. I walked past him, my boots heavy on the floor, heading toward the intensive care unit where my future was hanging by a single, fragile thread.
