Chapter 3 - The Interrogation
The silence in the study was suffocating.
The heavy rain outside beat relentlessly against the high leaded-glass windows, sounding like thousands of tiny hammers trying to shatter the room.
Emma couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. Her heart beat so violently against her ribs she was certain Vincent could hear it from across the desk.
"Vincent..." her voice was barely a squeak.
"I asked you a question, Emma," Vincent said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't slam his hand on the desk. That was what made him terrifying; his rage was a silent, deep-sea current—cold, immense, and capable of crushing steel. "You gave me your word when you signed our contract. You said, 'I won't lie for you.' Do you remember saying that to me in Grant’s office?"
"I remember," Emma whispered, a single tear spilling over her lashes and tracing a hot path down her cheek.
"Then do not lie to me now," Vincent commanded softly, leaning forward until his shadow completely engulfed her. "Who is the father?"
"You are!" Emma gasped out, the truth bursting from her throat like a sob. "It's you, Vincent! I swear on my mother’s life! I swear on my dead father’s grave! There has never been anyone else! Never!"
Vincent’s eyes didn't soften. They hardened into flint.
"Do not insult my intelligence, Emma," he spat, his gloves tightening into tight fists. "You have seen the report. Six independent medical chiefs signed that document twelve years ago! My pelvic structure was torn apart by shrapnel! I have lived twelve years knowing that I would never hold a child of my own blood! And you sit there and tell me a miracle occurred three months after you moved into my house?!"
"I don't know about miracles!" Emma cried out, gripping the arms of the leather chair, leaning toward him without fear, driven entirely by the absolute purity of her innocence. "I am a nurse, Vincent! I know how biology works! I knew what your file said! That's why I went to Sarah in secret this morning—because I thought I was losing my mind!"
Vincent stared at her, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched beneath his scarred neck. "You went behind my back."
"Because I was terrified!" Emma wept openly now, her shoulders shaking. "I was terrified that if I came to you without proof, you would think exactly what you're thinking right now! That I betrayed you! That I breached the contract!"
She reached across the desk, her trembling hand stopping just inches from his gloved fingers.
"I haven't touched another man, Vincent," she whispered, her dark eyes looking straight into his cold grey ones with absolute, unyielding honesty. "The night after the charity gala six weeks ago... when you came to my room... when we were together... that was the only time. You know that was the only time. I was a virgin when you married me, Vincent. You know that!"
Vincent froze.
The air in the room seemed to vanish.
The memory of six weeks ago flared in the darkness between them—a rainy night much like this one, when Vincent had returned home bleeding from a shoulder wound after an ambush in East Chicago. Emma had stitched his skin in her private bathroom with steady, gentle hands. She hadn't flinched at his blood. She hadn't cowered from his pain. And in the quiet, emotional aftermath of that dark night, the rigid boundaries of their contract had dissolved into a desperate, passionate encounter that neither of them had mentioned since.
Vincent slowly looked down at his gloved hands.
"A virgin..." he repeated, the words sounding heavy, strange, and ancient on his tongue.
"Yes," Emma sobbed softly, pulling her hand back to wipe her face. "Check the cameras, Vincent. Check Frank's logs. Put your security team on me twenty-four hours a day. Search my phone, search my bank accounts, interview every person I've spoken to for the last three months! If you find a single piece of evidence that I have ever looked at another man, you can execute me yourself!"
Vincent sat motionless for a long, agonizing minute. The lethal rage in his eyes began to shift, replaced by a deep, chaotic confusion that cracked through his iron discipline.
He slowly stood up from his chair.
He walked around the heavy desk, his tall frame looming over her. He stopped right beside her chair.
Slowly, Vincent reached down with his right hand.
For the first time in three months, he stripped off his black leather glove.
Emma held her breath.
She had never seen his bare hands.
His hand was large, strong, and covered in fine silver scar tissue across the knuckles and back, but the fingers were straight, noble, and powerful.
Vincent reached down, his bare, warm thumb gently wiping the wet tear from Emma’s cheek. His skin was warm—intensely warm—and slightly rough against her soft face.
"If you are lying to me, Emma," Vincent whispered, his voice trembling slightly with a terrifying mixture of hope and agony, "it will destroy more than just this house. It will ignite a war that will burn Chicago to the ground."
"I’m not lying, Vincent," Emma murmured, closing her eyes and pressing her cheek into his bare palm. "It’s your child."
Before Vincent could answer, the heavy double doors of the study were thrown open without a knock.
Grant Hale rushed into the room, his face pale, his tablet held tightly in his hand.
"Boss," Grant said urgently, completely ignoring Emma’s presence. "We have a massive security breach. Someone just leaked the Mercy Harbor lab results to the Lucchesi family syndicate in New York."
Vincent’s head snapped toward Grant, his face instant turning back into a mask of lethal, terrifying stone.
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"What?" Vincent growled.
"It gets worse," Grant said, holding up the tablet. "Old Don Lucchesi just called an emergency meeting of the Commission in Detroit for tomorrow afternoon. He’s claiming you faked your sterility twelve years ago to deceive the syndicate council... and he’s demanding your immediate execution for breaking the 2014 Territorial Peace Treaty."
