Chapter 3 - Blood and Diamonds
The penthouse sat fifty stories above the city, a fortress of steel, imported teak, and panoramic glass that overlooked the sparkling harbor. Usually, the vast space felt hollow to Damon—a museum of his solitary wealth.
Tonight, it felt like an emergency sanctuary.
Dr. Jonathan Vance, Damon’s personal physician and a trusted family friend for three decades, set his stethoscope back into his medical bag with a solemn sigh. Across the sprawling living room, Mia was sitting on an oversized white linen sofa, swaddled in a cashmere blanket, sound asleep. A half-eaten bowl of warm chicken broth and three slices of fresh brioche sat on the table beside her.
“How is she?” Damon asked, pacing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, an untouched glass of scotch in his hand.
“Physically? She is severely malnourished, Damon,” Dr. Vance said gravely, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the child. “Her bone density is low for a four-year-old. She has healed contusions on her forearms consistent with rough handling, and mild frostbite scars on her toes from earlier this winter. Whoever had custody of her was keeping her locked in an unheated room. She didn’t run away from a playground, Damon. She escaped a prison.”
Damon’s knuckles turned white around his glass. “And the DNA swab?”
Dr. Vance pulled a small black device from his satchel, its digital display blinking with a processing status bar. “The rapid sequencer takes about forty minutes. Damon... you haven’t told me why you asked for a direct familial comparison between that child and your late sister.”
Damon walked to the side table, picking up the tarnished silver swallow charm he had carefully removed from Mia’s wrist while she bathed. He handed it to Vance.
Vance gasped. “Clara’s pendant.”
“Julian told us Clara died in a boat explosion off the coast of Martinique three years ago,” Damon said, his voice shaking with restrained fury. “He produced dental records, ashes, an official death certificate signed by foreign authorities. But that swallow was custom-made by an artisan in Italy. Clara never took it off. She swore she would pass it to her firstborn daughter.”
“Damon, Julian was Clara’s legal guardian and trustee after your parents died, before you turned twenty-five,” Vance reasoned, his brow furrowed with deep concern. “If Clara had a child... that child would be the sole legitimate heir to the Cross-Rochefort trust. The ninety-million-dollar estate Julian has been siphoning to fund his political empire.”
The room went dead silent.
The implications hung in the air like a guillotine.
If Clara had given birth to a daughter, Julian Rochefort would have lost control of the trust the moment the child came of age—or worse, if Damon discovered the child existed, Damon could sue for immediate guardianship, stripping Julian of every cent of the Cross fortune.
*A beep shattered the silence.*
Both men turned toward the coffee table. The rapid DNA console had finished its analysis.
Dr. Vance stepped forward, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up the device. He stared at the digital screen for ten long seconds, his breath hitching.
“Jonathan?” Damon demanded, the word tearing from his throat. “What does it say?”
Dr. Vance looked up, his eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.
“Direct maternal lineage confirmed,” Vance whispered. “Damon... she is Clara’s biological daughter. She is your niece.”
Damon stood paralyzed. The world seemed to stop spinning. He turned toward the sofa, looking at the tiny girl curled beneath the massive cashmere blanket.
His niece. Clara’s baby.
All these years, while he had mourned his sister in bitter loneliness, Clara’s flesh and blood had been locked away in darkness, starving in Julian Rochefort’s shadows.
Before Damon could take a step toward her, his phone vibrated violently on the marble counter.
It was an alert from the city’s major news syndicate.
A notification flashed across the screen:
**BREAKING: Senatorial Candidate Julian Rochefort Files Emergency Police Report Alleging Kidnapping of Vulnerable Minor by Tech Titan Damon Cross.**
Damon looked at the headline, then looked at the sleeping child.
A cold, dark smile touched his lips.
May you like
“They want a war,” Damon whispered into the quiet room. “I’m going to give them an apocalypse.”
***
