Chapter 3 - The Woman Behind the Locked Door
Damian played the recording seven times.
Each time, the woman's voice remained the same.
Soft.
Controlled.
Unmistakable.
Isabelle.
“Where did this come from?” he demanded.
Enzo explained that the call had been intercepted through a surveillance system monitoring Victor's private security network.
“The recording is from last night. The signal originated from a private residence outside Chicago.”
“Address?”
“We're tracing it.”
Damian grabbed his coat.
“Get the cars.”
Elena stepped between him and the door.
“Wait.”
He looked at her.
“If Isabelle is alive, I'm going to find her.”
“And if you arrive with twenty armed men, she'll disappear again.”
“I won't let anyone hurt her.”
“You said that before.”
The words struck him.
Damian's jaw tightened.
Elena continued.
“You don't understand what happened. Isabelle spent years believing you had abandoned her. She watched the people who were supposed to protect her become the people she feared most.”
“I didn't know.”
“You didn't ask.”
He had no defense.
Lily appeared behind her mother, clutching Mr. Bun.
“Are you going away?”
Damian crouched.
“Not for long.”
“Promise?”
He looked at the little girl.
He had made promises before. Most of them had been broken by people he trusted.
“I promise I'll come back.”
Lily considered him.
“Okay. But don't forget my pancakes.”
“I won't.”
He kissed the top of her head.
Then he left.
By noon, Enzo had located the source of the recording.
An old lakefront property in Winnetka.
It belonged to a holding company connected to the Vescari family foundation.
Damian recognized the address.
It was the house his father had purchased decades earlier for family members who needed protection.
He had not visited in years.
The driveway was empty when his car arrived.
No guards.
No lights.
Damian entered alone, with Enzo waiting outside.
The house smelled of dust and lavender.
On the kitchen table sat a half-finished cup of tea.
A woman's coat hung over a chair.
Damian walked slowly through the hallway.
“Isabelle?”
Nothing.
He reached the bedroom.
The closet door was open.
Inside hung several dresses.
One of them was blue.
He had bought it for her anniversary four years earlier.
She had worn it the night he accused her of betrayal.
Damian touched the fabric.
Then he noticed the photograph on the bedside table.
It showed Isabelle holding a newborn baby.
Lily.
Beneath it lay a folded note.
Damian, if you ever find this, please understand that I didn't leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I believed staying would cost our daughter her life.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
His hands trembled.
There was more.
The man who brought you those documents knew exactly how to destroy us. He knew your father's secrets. He knew your weaknesses. And he knew that if you believed I had betrayed you, you would never listen to me again.
A sound came from the doorway.
Damian spun around.
A woman stood there.
She was thinner than he remembered. Her dark hair had been cut short, and a pale scar crossed her left eyebrow.
But her eyes were the same.
Gray-blue.
Beautiful.
Isabelle.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she looked at the note in his hand.
“You shouldn't have come.”
Damian took one step toward her.
“Isabelle.”
She shook her head.
“Don't.”
“You're alive.”
“I know.”
He let out a broken breath.
“I buried you.”
“And I buried the woman I was before I married you.”
Damian's eyes filled.
“Why didn't you come back?”
She gave a bitter little laugh.
“I tried.”
He reached for her.
She stepped away.
“Please don't touch me.”
His hand fell.
“I found out about Lily.”
Isabelle closed her eyes.
“Does she know?”
“She knows I'm trying to understand.”
“Does she know who you are?”
“Not yet.”
Isabelle turned toward the window.
“I wanted her to have a father. I wanted her to know what it felt like to be loved by both parents.”
“Then let me be that father.”
“You had your chance.”
Damian accepted the blow without moving.
“I know.”
A long silence followed.
Then Isabelle opened a drawer and removed a small envelope.
Inside was a photograph of Victor Hale standing beside a man Damian recognized immediately.
His father.
The photograph was dated three months before his father's death.
On the back, Isabelle had written:
They were working together long before you met me.
Damian stared.
“My father was dead when Victor brought me the evidence.”
“Your father wasn't dead when the transfers began.”
“What are you saying?”
Isabelle looked directly into his eyes.
“Victor didn't frame me alone. Your father helped him.”
Damian felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“My father trusted him.”
“Your father trusted power more than people. Victor knew that.”
She placed another document in his hand.
It was a copy of a bank transfer authorization.
The signature at the bottom belonged to Damian.
But the date was from a week when he had been unconscious in a hospital after a shooting.
Someone had forged his name.
And the account receiving the money belonged to a company that still operated under the Vescari family.
“Who owns it?” he asked.
Isabelle whispered, “You do.”
Before Damian could respond, the front windows exploded.
He threw Isabelle to the floor.
Gunfire ripped through the living room.
Enzo shouted from outside.
“Boss!”
Damian pulled Isabelle behind the stone fireplace.
Then his phone vibrated.
A message appeared from an unknown number.
You should have left the dead buried.
A second message followed.
May you like
A photograph of Greystone House.
And beneath it, a picture of Lily sleeping in her bedroom.
